Remnants
by artemiskat
Summary: Exiled, the Hero of Ferelden must find his way in a foreign land. Forced to take on a second skin, just how much of Tristan Amell remains when all the rest is gone? What will it take to become the hero he once was? A girl, meanwhile, seeks to prove herself. Trouble ensues, merging their two paths. Part I & II complete, Part III (to come). As of 12/30/2012 - ON HOLD INDEFINITELY
1. Prologue: 9:38 Dragon

Rated M – mostly for foul language and violence, like all my other stories.  
**Bioware created the world I play in – I simply and humbly add to it.**

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Prologue  
9:38 Dragon

So this was it. Slumped forward away from the cold stone wall, sitting in shackles, his head hung in defeat.

No, not defeat, but resignation.

This was what it all came down to. Tristan Amell had wished for death so many times, he didn't think it would ever come. Yet, here it was.

This was his last night alive; at the break of dawn he was going to die.

He wanted to laugh at the irony of it all. The Hero of Ferelden, fallen now, sentenced to death. He wondered what the tales of his life would read like. How the bards would spin this sad end. The king, once a great friend, passed the judgment himself. He wanted to laugh, but he couldn't bring himself to do that.

Instead, he reached for something around his neck, out of habit. The shackles stopped him midway, painfully chafing against his wrist. It didn't matter anyway, the pouch was not there. They had taken it away from him, right before they escorted him to Fort Drakon through a crowd of angry people, cursing his name, spitting on him, daring him to act like the monster they thought he was. All he gave them in return was a mad grin.

Perhaps he was mad. The people were right to feel disappointed with him, disgraced by him. But they did not know the whole story. They did not know the truth. And now they never would.

And so alone he sat, in the darkness of Fort Drakon, where eight years ago he had slain an archdemon upon its roof, bringing peace if not to the world, then to Ferelden. Days ago, he'd nearly rendered all that null and void. Tristan was resigned to his punishment. His only regret was that common sense had prevailed over baser instincts, which was what had gotten him into this mess.

"_For your crimes against Ferelden, your sentence is to be passed out publicly three days henceforth at the break of dawn. May the people of Ferelden be witness to your guilt… and witness to your death." _

_Death._

It was so final. At the very least, he could be grateful that he was going to see Brenna again. This was not, however, how he ever expected to go. Sure, there was a time when he'd have done anything to return to her sweet embrace. But he'd been out of his mind with grief. Now, his mind was clear. He didn't really want to die anymore.

Tristan expected that Alistair would have at least given him the option of ending things Grey Warden style – deep in the underground, fighting off darkspawn to the death. He supposed he'd lost that right since he left the order. Probably, the accusations against him were the reason. They were serious enough, obviously, or he wouldn't be facing death in a couple of hours. He wasn't yet sure if it was to be ended by a noose or a sword. Either way, it was not an honorable way to go.

He sighed, letting out a deeply held breath. Such a simple, thoughtless action it was to breathe. He vowed to savour every last breath until dawn. He only wished that he could get to say goodbye to everyone who meant something to him – his friends, his family – and tell them the truth. He was not the monster his enemies painted him out to be, though sometimes he wished he were.

On second thought, perhaps it was better not to see his friends and family, for surely they would see right through to his darkness and believe all the things said of him, just as Alistair had. Maybe they even knew what was happening, but were too ashamed to come to him. He wouldn't be too surprised if that were the case. Alistair certainly kept his distance, had not even come to see him while he awaited his end.

Despite all the thoughts racing through his mind, slumber fought to overtake him. Tristan closed his eyes and rested his head back against the wall.

_Funny, I am to die tomorrow and all I want to do is sleep and bring the hour closer…_

There was no use in prolonging the agony. He fell asleep.

…

The darkspawn whispers were louder than normal. The sound augmented into a strange hum, and then into a buzzing cacophony. Tristan couldn't ignore it. He couldn't block it out of his mind, couldn't stop his blood from stirring in rhythm to the noise. He did the only thing he could. He awakened.

It was dark still. He wasn't sure how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? Perhaps only a few seconds.

The taint in him quieted. The beating of his heart calmed. He pushed thoughts of darkspawn out of his mind. They were not his problem anymore. They hadn't been for years, though he always kept note of them, prepared to return to the Grey Wardens should a great threat arise.

As Tristan searched through the chamber of cells he noticed the lack of guards, the absence of their constant footsteps in the hall outside, the studious quiet. Something did not feel right. He shrugged off the feeling, his shackles clinking on the floor with the movement, sending a loud echo through the room. It was probably nothing. What did he care anyway, he was to die soon enough.

His eyes rested on the flame billowing out of a torch. A guard usually came to snuff it out at midnight. But there it glowed, burning brightly, sending light and warmth to his face even from across the room. The guard must have forgotten his duty. How easy it was to snuff out a flame when it was not needed. Life was the same, easily put out like a flame, like his life.

He should end it all himself, in his cell, and take away their victory. His wrists may be bound in shackles, but his palms, his fingertips were free. Magic could release him to the next world. Suicide was shameful, but he already was a disgrace. Then again, taking his own life would only confirm his supposed guilt.

_You've really fucked it up this time, Tristan_.

The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Lighter and quicker than a guard's steps, whoever was coming was not wearing the heavy armour of a guard. Could it be dawn already? There were no windows in the chamber. He'd only guessed at it being night when they shoved a hunk of bread into his cell. Perhaps it was the executioner come to retrieve him, or a sister come to pray for his soul.

He straightened up and waited. His hand twitched. He really wanted to run a hand through his hair, but the shackles wouldn't let him. This was not like going into battle. One expected on the eve of battle that one might die. The anxiousness was like a soothing potion, a way to cope with the possibility of death. Now, it threatened to overwhelm him. He knew he was going to die. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

The chamber door creaked open. He took a deep breath and held onto it otherwise his heart might stammer right out of his chest. He thought he was brave. He thought he could resign himself to this fate, but the hour was near, it was proving difficult to do.

A single figure entered, wearing a mantle over what looked like leather armour, and a hood to conceal identity. It was not a guard, nor a sister, nor the executioner. It was a man. Still, he held onto his breath.

The man closed the door behind him. The resulting thud sent a jolt through Tristan. He didn't let go of his breath.

The man scanned the chamber and its cells. Only one was occupied. He began to walk towards Tristan. Tristan could not see the man's face. It rested in the shadows of the hood, though Tristan could see a short strand of blonde hair.

_Alistair? _His heart wanted to believe it so, but it couldn't be. The man was leaner than Alistair, hair slightly too long to be his friend. Besides, Alistair had made it clear enough what he thought of him. He doubted the king would visit him in his final hours.

The man took out a set of keys and fumbled with them for a few seconds. He stopped in front of Tristan's cell and then placed a key in the lock. It wasn't the right one and the man hissed a curse. Tristan watched in silence, holding his breath still as the man found another key and tried again. This time the lock clicked. The man opened the cell door.

Tristan could hold his breath, his curiousity no longer. "What are you doing?" he asked the hooded man.

The man entered the cell. "You are an honourable man." His voice was young, confident in tone. "I don't believe you are guilty of what you are accused of. It is ridiculous."

He pushed back his hood, revealing a familiar grin. Tristan knew who he was, had known him since he was a boy. His surprise turned to anger though, realizing how much trouble this could be for the king's squire.

"Do you really know me, Sam?"

Sam strode forward with the grin still stuck to his face, and crouched before Tristan. "I do know you." He lifted Tristan's left hand. He stuck a small key into the shackles, turned it, and the thing came loose, sliding off Tristan's hand to land with a thud on the floor.

Watching Sam with narrowed eyes, Tristan shook his head in disbelief. "So you would betray the king, for me?"

"Hardly," Sam replied. He turned to the other shackle and freed Tristan from that one.

Tristan rubbed his wrists, grateful to be free of the binds, but confusion still ran through his mind. "I don't understand then. What in the Maker's name are you doing?"

Sam stood up and offered a hand to Tristan. Tristan considered the boy – _no, he's a man now_ – wary of what was happening. Did Sam think to free him, or was he here to end it for him? Nothing was making sense at the moment.

"I'm freeing you, on the king's wishes," Sam said. He further extended his hand, a look of slight impatience wiping away the grin.

Tristan could feel a headache coming. He could hardly believe what was happening. Perhaps he was still asleep after all. He chuckled, maybe a little too madly. Ignoring Sam's offered hand for the moment, he continued to sit in the cell. "Now he believes me? Now he cares? Has Alistair even thought this through? If I flee, my guilt is confirmed in everyone's mind."

"Take my hand, Tristan," Sam said, reaching out. "This is not a trick. You have to trust me."

Tristan prolonged the moment, not quite believing this could actually be. When Sam nodded encouragement to him, as if he were a child needing reassurance, he took the proffered hand and let himself be pulled up. He was only embarrassing himself if he continued to act in that way.

"Alistair always believed you," Sam explained. "He struggled with this every single minute of every single day. In the end, he thought it best to let you go, to make it look like you escaped, even if it meant people would only assume your guilt was truth because of it. He wants you alive and free, not dead."

Tristan shook his head. "Then why didn't he come and tell me this himself? Why did he pass the sentence in the first place?"

"You know you put him in an awkward position. It doesn't take a scholar to see that."

"That's what I do best, isn't it?"

Sam placed a hand on his shoulder. "And that is why we love you." Sam laughed and then continued, "He so cleverly got the guard schedules mixed up, so, there aren't many around. Those who are around – loyal like mabari bitches to the king."

"So I escape Fort Drakon, like I did years ago under almost the same circumstances. Then what? Where am I to go? What am I to do? Does Alistair expect me to run away for the rest of my life?"

"He expects you to disappear, like you've done before," Sam answered. It was like a punch to the gut. Nothing good ever came of him disappearing. Sam removed his hand from Tristan's shoulder and looked impatiently at the door. "An old friend of yours is waiting by the docks."

"An old friend?" Tristan asked. He was surprised he still had friends.

Sam nodded. "Captain Alaric will take you to safety."

The old man was still alive. Tristan was not surprised at that, for it always seemed to him that Captain Alaric would only surrender to death once his ship did. Still, Tristan was wary of this plan. He wanted to live, but was it worth it if everyone thought him a monster? And to disappear meant…

"Am I to be exiled then?"

"Once news of your escape hits the streets Alistair will declare you exiled for life from Ferelden – on pain of death should you try and return." Sam nodded sadly. "It is the only way to satisfy everyone."

To leave his home, his friends, his family, he might as well let himself be executed.

"And what of you, Sam? Your part in this proposed escape, won't you be in trouble for this?"

"Only if I am seen. I don't plan on that happening." Sam once again glanced back at the door impatiently. Tristan couldn't let him do it. What if Sam was seen? What if things went wrong? Then not only Sam would pay for it, but maybe even Alistair as well. He couldn't let that happen.

"I cannot let you do this. You might as well tie me back up. I cannot leave my home. I cannot put you in danger." Sam was about to open his mouth in protest but Tristan continued on, leaving him no room for arguing. "I take responsibility for my actions. I will go through with my punishment."

"You did nothing wrong!" Sam protested loudly. "You would rather die on the morrow, like a fallen hero, prey to the slanders of the fool mob who believe every bit of garbage that is fed to them? You would rather let _them_ win?"

Tristan laughed. "I _am_ a fallen hero."

"Not yet, not ever."

"Your faith in me, Sam, I don't know where it comes from. I am tired of running." Tristan turned away and gripped the bars of the cell. He pushed his forehead into the cold steel. He _was_ tired of running. That's all he ever seemed to do.

Sam groaned in frustration. "You're not running, just moving on."

"Moving on to the afterlife."

Sam gripped his arm hard and turned him around with surprising force. "I'm not a little boy anymore. I will drag you out of here. You don't have to worry about endangering me. If you consider Ferelden your home, then show your loyalty to your king. Do as he says. Leave this place and live. You have many years yet in front of you. Do not waste them for _this_."

The life of a Grey Warden didn't really leave him much time to work with, but Sam perhaps didn't know of that curse. The taint was advancing slowly within him so far. One day, however, it would speed up. His end would be a day of his choosing. If Alistair wanted to command him to live, then he would prove his loyalty. "One last act of loyalty before I am exiled…"

"Yes. Let's go, before the sun rises, eh?"

Tristan didn't know where it came from, but his will to live was stronger than it had been in years, even if there wasn't much to live for anymore. He wrenched his arm away from Sam's tight grip and met the young man's eyes.

"Let's go then."

…

Tristan reluctantly covered his head with the mantle Sam had been wearing. "And if you are seen?"

"I told you," Sam grinned as he checked the hallway outside of the chamber, "I don't plan on being seen. Besides, you're covered up now. Who's going to guess who you are?"

"Let's hope it will be that easy." Tristan followed Sam out into the hall as he signaled that it was alright to do so. "You said all the guards around were loyal to Alistair. Why are you skittish as a hen?"

"Skittish as a hen?" Sam looked at Tristan askance. "I'm all fired up. This is an adventure!"

"Right. Don't get too excited." Tristan put a hand on the back of Sam's neck. "Something _always_ goes wrong."

"Not this time."

They moved forward, past the offices of Fort Drakon's commander. Tristan risked a glance inside, his face hidden in the shadows of his hood. The commander sat at his desk, skimming over papers. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps, but quickly looked away.

They rounded the corner, the guards nodding once to Sam, ignoring Tristan at his side, complicit in the king's conspiracy. Tristan was glad to be escaping this prison, his death sentence, but something didn't sit right with him. It was too easy. Something had to go wrong. He halted Sam.

"Are you sure they will stay quiet about all this?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "They will."

"And if they're tortured? What are they going to say? That I just walked out in the middle of the night, unseen, unstopped?"

"Well, if they are tortured, that is the truth." Sam shrugged. "That sort of stuff doesn't happen anymore, though, not since Rendon Howe. You know this. The king will come up with some horrible escape story, I'm sure of it."

"So he hasn't completely thought this through?" Tristan shook his head in disbelief. If Alistair was found to be aiding Tristan in his escape, it could mean trouble. A lot of trouble. "I can't do this then."

Sam groaned. "He wants you alive. Do I have to convince you all over again?"

"I just don't want to be responsible for more…" he let his thoughts trail off. _I don't want to be the cause of more pain, more deaths._ He was only beginning to let go of those feelings of guilt after so many years. It had been hard. He didn't want to feel that way again.

Sam sighed. He set his eyes pleadingly upon Tristan. "I am begging you to let us help you for once in your life. You can let that happen you know. Nobody will think less of you."

The boy – the young man – had a point. It was hard to think of him as all grown up, but here Sam stood before him, understanding beyond his years. He was probably smarter than Tristan ever was. "Fine. I'll go."

Sam nodded and then continued forward, through the large door that led into the largest chamber in Fort Drakon – the one in which ballistae sat upon large platforms, as if they had not been moved since the Blight. The guards did not so much as blink as they passed through. Sam tossed the keys he used to free Tristan at a senior looking guard before they left that chamber to reach the front room.

Once out the main door, Tristan would nearly be free and his impending death would turn into nothing but a bad dream.

_No_, Tristan thought. _I go through those doors to a living death. The Hero of Ferelden will cease to exist but the man inside will walk alone, an exile for life. Is this really better than death?_

Sam waited, holding the door open and watching him closely, hopefully. Letting his hesitation slip away, Tristan shot forward and crossed the threshold. A living death meant there was a slim chance he could come back and make things right, finish the unfinished business, and clear his name. It meant he could return to Brenna on his terms with his promises fulfilled and with pride.

Sam slapped him on the back once outside. "We need to be quick. There's not much time left."

Tristan looked to the sky. Far in the distance the first semblance of light was invading the dark horizon. Dawn was coming. If he wasn't gone by then, there would be no hope at all.

They broke into a run, a race against time.

When they passed through the courtyard outside the walls of Fort Drakon, Tristan glimpsed the preparations for his execution. If he were braver, he might laugh at the sight of the workers setting up for nothing. But he was not out of the woods yet. Sam yanked him forward when he unconsciously stopped to watch what might have been. The anxious looks Sam flicked toward the preparations brought Tristan back to reality and they continued on their journey toward the docks.

They raced through the streets of Denerim, keeping to the shadows like wraiths. They encountered few people. Those they did meet were lost in their own little worlds, uncaring of the two men running like thieves after a robbery.

The sight of water slowed them into a trot. Freedom was near. The feeling of sea spray on his face made Tristan believe that it actually was happening. The whole escape had been a haze the moment he left Fort Drakon. Now, the sails, the masts of galleys and smaller ships were a beacon of hope. They were so close.

And then it happened. Tristan knew something would go wrong. It always did. Life for him was no smooth sailing.

A group of city guards emerged from an alleyway, just as Tristan and Sam found their way to the harbor. The water lapped behind them, striking against the pier in small waves. Sam stood in front of Tristan, his arm held out to keep Tristan behind. He looked over his shoulder to Tristan, a warning look on his face.

"Do not say anything. These are not the king's men."

Tristan braced himself for discovery. The man at the head of the group of guards was known to him. _Ser Conall_, _the king's dour bodyguard, but_ _definitely not the king's man_. He prepared himself to react. He would not let Sam go down for him.

Ser Conall had noticed Sam the moment he emerged from the alleyway. He led his group of city guards toward them, his steps long and loud, purposeful thuds pounding away the wooden planks of the pier. He halted right in front of Sam, looking over the youth with disgust. His eyes reached behind, but Tristan cast his own downwards and stayed hidden in his hood.

"I knew something fishy was going on," Ser Conall said after a long moment of silence.

"It does smell like fish out here, doesn't it? Must be coming from the water," Sam replied with a sideways glance over the pier.

"Don't play stupid with me, Cousland's pet. Who is that behind you?" Ser Conall refrained from unsheathing his sword, but his hand hovered over the hilt in warning.

Sam sucked in his breath, anger visible in the set of his shoulders, audible in the tone of his voice. "I told you before I am no one's pet. This is nothing to do with you. Mind your business and get back to the king."

"No pet is going to tell me what to do…" Ser Conall withdrew his sword. He spat on the ground in front of Sam's feet. His brow was furrowed, his teeth were bared like a snarling dog.

Tristan didn't have any time to react. The hatred between Sam and Ser Conall was plain for everyone to see. It seemed to have reached a boiling point out of reach, out of sight of the king they both served, though not with the same loyal heart. Sam reached for the dagger at his waist, the only weapon he carried at that moment, and shot forward with it raised and poised to stab the knight in the neck. Tristan darted forward a little too late – Ser Conall blocked the attempt, catching Sam's wrist in a twisting grip and pointing the tip of his sword onto Sam's neck.

_The recklessness of youth_. Tristan bunched his fists in frustration. He thought Sam knew better than that. He'd learned from the best after all. Ser Conall was nothing compared to Sam's mentors. But common sense didn't always prevail.

"Don't play with the big boys if you want to get burned," Ser Conall taunted as he twisted Sam's wrist harder. Sam did not cry out though he grimaced in pain and dropped the dagger. "Now, tell me, what are you up to Longshot? Who don't you want us to see?"

Tristan flexed his hands, readying himself to make things right. He wasn't going to let anything happen to Sam. "You'll let him go…" he commanded Ser Conall.

Ser Conall smiled, his face bunching up grotesquely. A snort of derision released from his throat to his nose.

"… unless you want to be the one to get burned." Tristan stepped forward once and grew a fireball in the palm of his hand. The other guards backed away cautiously.

Ser Conall's eyes flinched in surprise. "It's Amell…" The surprise was quickly replaced by recognition. Ser Conall almost seemed to glow with his discovery. The other guards closed up their formation again, eager not to let the prisoner get away.

"I'm warning you, let him go. Now." Tristan began to shake as he struggled to control the fireball. He had to release it soon. But he did not want to hit Sam. He did not want his actions cause Ser Conall to plunge the sword into Sam's neck. A rage grew inside of him as he remembered a moment similar to this one. He did not want to fail again.

"Do it Tristan," Sam urged, his green eyes steadfast, trusting in Tristan's abilities. The youth put too much faith in him. He didn't know if he could live up to it. But Tristan did not have any time to waste, any time to think things through. It was now or never.

Ser Conall seemed to be caught off guard by Sam's blessing, so much so, that Sam was able to kick the man, twist away and duck, all in time for Tristan to send his fireball swirling towards the group of guards. Most of them got their shields up in time to block the fire. Not Ser Conall.

His screams pierced through the night as the flames crawled over his face. One of his men shoved at the flames with his cape while another ran to the edge of the pier and scooped water up into his shield to toss it at Ser Conall's face to stop the burning.

Meanwhile, Tristan helped Sam up from the ground. They were no longer surrounded by the guards, the chaos Tristan caused with his magic distracting them from their duty.

"Captain Alaric is waiting," Sam noted. He motioned toward a ship not far off. The _Empress's Wine_ was pulling up anchor, its gangplank hovering on the pier, waiting for Tristan.

"What about you?" Tristan asked as Sam pulled him in the direction of the ship. He looked back once and saw the guards still putting out fires. Ser Conall sat slumped on the ground, his face held in pain. "You've been seen."

Sam didn't answer, only lead them to and on the ship. Tristan caught sight of the leathery old captain and heard him telling the crew to pull out. But it did not register in his mind. He watched as Sam tossed the gangplank over the edge of the ship with another sailor. He heard the creak as the ship began to move, felt the floor beneath him roll with the waves.

"You can't come," he told Sam.

Sam turned to him. He rubbed his neck where the knight had pressed his sword to, perhaps checking for blood. When none appeared on his fingers, he massaged his wrist. "I have to now…"

Tristan walked over to the railing. He shook his head in disbelief. He always got somebody in trouble. When would it ever end? Sam would surely be exiled now, too. Alistair would have to or else risk discovery of his own part in this escape.

"Melisende will hunt me down and kill me for dragging you into this," Tristan said as Sam joined him at the railing.

Sam laughed. "You know she would have done the same thing I just did."

"I know." Tristan sighed. Out of all his friends, he was certain that she would not doubt him for one second. If she had been in the city when everything had happened, she would have stood by his side. She must have rubbed off onto Sam. "She taught you well."

"She was not the only one to tell me to do what was right. I had many great teachers." Sam pointedly fixed his gaze onto Tristan's and then looked away at the increasing distance between the ship and the pier. "Truthfully, I am not at all sad to be leaving Ferelden. Maybe I am even a little happy that it worked out like this."

Tristan felt the surprise overcome him. "Even so, I am sorry to have put you in this position."

"Don't be." Sam turned to him once again, tapping the railing once. "Ferelden will always be home, but, it has gotten very sour lately. I was supposed to be knighted last year, after Alistair returned from Orlais, but that never happened."

"Why not?" Tristan asked. He had not been in Ferelden at that time.

Sam shrugged. "A certain somebody decided for Alistair that I was not ready, that I spent way too much time in the shady parts of the city when I was not serving the king. I was forced to stay behind while he was in Orlais. But serving the king is so boring. I never get to go into battle. I can't even enter tourneys. And the ladies of the court, well, they see me only as a peasant brat to look down on."

"I'm sorry, Sam." Tristan felt his heart breaking for the youth. All he wanted to do was prove himself. Maybe now he finally had, he'd perhaps never be able to return to Ferelden.

"I am not disappointed at how things worked out. I knew there was a chance Ser Conall might show up. I am glad that he did. I get to have the life of adventure I always wanted."

Tristan frowned. Even if Sam thought everything had worked out, he knew the youth would one day regret it. This was his home. A life of adventures was not as great as some people made it out to be. He knew this himself. Tristan couldn't give Sam what he was looking for, even if he unintentionally already did. "And you think to get that with me?"

"Of course." Sam slapped him on the back. "Who better?"

"You'd do well not to place me so high up on a pedestal. I will only disappoint you in the end."

Sam shook his head and then reached for something beneath his leather cuirass. He seemed not to be able to find whatever it was he was searching for and as Tristan watched him in curiousity, the youth finally pulled something out. He held it out to Tristan palm up. Tristan felt a lump in his throat as he realized what it was – Brenna's old pouch.

"Sorry I couldn't get Vigilance…" Sam said.

Tristan retrieved the pouch. He never thought he would see it in this life. It felt so good to hold it again. He felt like Brenna was with him once more. "This means more than anything, anyway. A sword can be replaced, this cannot be. Thank you." Tristan placed the pouch around his neck and tucked it under his tunic where he could feel it resting against the beat of his heart.

Denerim was fading away in the early morning mist. The night sky was disappearing as dawn finally broke through the horizon, brightening into day. He could have been dead by now, but for the loyalty of friends. Friends only yesterday he thought did not exist anymore.

Was this the last he would ever see of his home? He wasn't sure how he felt at this moment. It was such a strange mingling of emotions – relief, guilt, sadness, hope. He'd escaped death yet another time. As he studied Sam watching Ferelden shrink into the distance, he couldn't help but wonder at what price did this new freedom come?

…

The question plagued Tristan's mind as the _Empress's Wine_ rolled out into the Waking Sea. Sam may have said he was not disappointed to be away from Ferelden, but how long would the lad feel that way? How long before resentment toward Tristan would set in? He couldn't bear to be the cause of such inevitable disappointment. Sam wanted adventures, Tristan wasn't sure he could give it to him especially since he did not even know where they were heading.

When things on the ship were calm and under control, when they all let out a sigh of relief that they were not being pursued by anyone, Captain Alaric came to greet Tristan. He wanted to know where they should head.

"You're the captain, I thought you would know," Tristan replied.

The old man held his hands up in admission. "I volunteered to take you away. Lucky I was already in port when all this went down. Nobody told me where to take you."

"Well, before all this shit went down, where were you heading?" Tristan asked.

"The Free Marches."

Sam came up behind Tristan, shaking his head. "No, you don't want to go there Tristan. After what happened with the mages, you wouldn't be safe there."

_Anders_… Tristan thought guiltily. He'd been surprised when the news filtered through to him, long after it had happened. He could understand the reasons why his old companion had done what he did, but… it was not right. And now mages everywhere were paying for his foolish actions. But who was he to judge? He'd just about done something very foolish himself…

"I heard the Templars have been going even harder on mages than usual. It isn't safe anywhere for a mage." Captain Alaric folded his arms. He seemed to be deep in thought. "But Orlais… there is chaos in that country as well. It might be the perfect place to hide and find a living too. And if you were discovered, chances are they wouldn't hand you back over to Ferelden. Pride would stop them from helping their ancient enemy."

"Orlais? In chaos?" Tristan asked.

Captain Alaric lifted a shoulder. "Not quite sure why or what is going on. But I heard whispers in the port of a possible civil war brewing."

"Then that can work." Sam excitedly hit Tristan in the shoulder. "Couldn't it?"

_Just what is Thedas coming to?_

Tristan didn't know if he wanted to go to Orlais. It was not his first choice. Yet, like Sam said, it could work. A land in chaos was always an easy place to blend into. The Free Marches was having trouble, too, but they didn't have the same scruples as Orlais when it came to dealing with Ferelden. They would not hesitate to hand him over to Ferelden – many Free Marchers were Ferelden expatriates after all. Antiva was not an option for him – he'd angered the Crows – and neither was any place close to that country.

"Then Orlais it is," Tristan agreed.

"Orlesian lasses," Captain Alaric grinned, "always up for a good trick. You picked wisely."

"What is this trick you speak of?" Sam asked, his eyes narrowed in curiosity.

Tristan grinned. He had a sudden flash of memory from his time with Leliana. "Oh, I know what he's talking about…"

"You won't tell me?"

"You'll find out yourself. It's better that way." Tristan patted Sam on the shoulder and walked away. He heard Sam asking the Captain, and when Captain Alaric started to explain, Tristan chuckled at the sound of footsteps catching up to him. Sam appeared by his side.

"You're right. I really don't want to hear of the sexual exploits of an old man."

Tristan arched a brow questioningly toward him, wanting to see the youth's reaction to Captain Alaric's words.

"He says it happened the last time he was in Val Royeaux – last year." Sam shuddered in disgust. "Oh the images… they must be removed from my mind…"

Tristan burst into laughter, wincing in amusement at the expression on Sam's face. He had to admit, he didn't really want to think about old Captain Alaric in that way either. "Well, you wanted adventure."

"Excuse me while I go vomit." Sam cantered off to the railing as the laughter continued to bubble out of Tristan.

Wanting a moment for himself, Tristan crossed to the other side of the ship. His laugher subsided into nothing. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He gripped the railing hard, letting out his breath as the wind brushed against his face. When he opened his eyes again, they rested in the direction of Orlais.

_A new beginning… or a new end?_


	2. Chapter One: Not Just a Girl

Part I

Chapter One  
Not Just a Girl

_Just a girl._

Fenarel's words flew through her mind. They enraged her so much that she still had imprints of her nails on her palms. Minutes earlier, she'd stood in front of Fenarel, balling her fists, her nails digging into her flesh painfully as she acquiesced to the wishes of her friend to stay behind. Little did he know that her mind had already made other plans. His words carried her onto this path. Catriel would show them all what _just a girl_ could do.

She stayed as far back from the little group as she dared. Catriel did not want to get too far behind that she would lose them, but neither did she want to get so close as to put her plans to ruin. Before setting off behind them, she'd tucked her long auburn hair into a hood, covering her pointy ears as well in the process. It was one of the rules. _Don't let them see you are _elvhen_, or else risk the safety of the city kin._ A strand of hair came loose as she crept close to the ground and she shoved it back. Her bow slung to the bend of her elbow at the movement. She pushed it back to her shoulder before quietly trotting forward once more.

Catriel's anger slowly faded as she thought of how surprised everyone would be at her bravery in following them. She would show them she had the courage of someone twice her age. She grinned to herself as she thought of the accolades she would receive from her older friends. It would well be worth the inevitable wrath of her mother.

A shudder passed through her at the thought of her mother. Catriel knew _mamae_ would call her foolish, reckless, and perhaps even an idiot. She might even send her to the pit for a day or two. But her mother was away at the moment. That's why her friends were doing this. Maybe _mamae_ need not ever know. Catriel knew, however, that might only be wishful thinking. Mother would find out. She always did. Her friends knew so, too. Even so, they wanted adventure. And they had the nerve to exclude Catriel.

_You are just a girl_.

She shook off the fury threatening to overtake her once again. Catriel could not lose her concentration. Her friends had reached the Imperial Highway. Catriel halted behind one of the few trees that dotted the barren landscape of the Dales. Peeking around the trunk, she saw her friends hiding themselves amongst the tumbleweed which surrounded the ancient road.

The highway had long ago been lined completely with columns, arches, and perhaps even a roof. The Tevinter Imperium had been mighty once and built these roads throughout their empire. Catriel couldn't help but feel gladdened by the fact that the Imperium no longer reached so far, was not nearly as powerful as it formerly was. The roads were maintained by necessity, but the rest of the magnificent architecture was left to the elements. Only the columns remained now and most were crumbling. She spotted one column leaning diagonally against one which remained straight and tall.

_That will be my perch_, she thought in glee. Taking a deep breath, she made a run for the column, fixing it in her gaze. Catriel knew her friends would see her but she would ignore their protests. They would regret excluding her, after they thanked the gods for bringing her there to save them.

Just as she thought, her presence sparked amazed gasps from her handful of friends. None stirred from their hiding spots as she reached the column. She climbed the column, nimble as a…

"Cat!" A whispered reprimand, loud and clear in its intent. "Catriel, what in Mythal's name are you doing?"

"Quiet Varia." Catriel scrambled up the column, keeping her balance as it shook underneath her weight. A few pieces of the column crumbled to the ground. For a moment, Catriel thought the thing might collapse underneath her, but as she leapt to the top of the vertical column it rested against, it ceased to shift.

"You should not be here," Varia scolded from below as she crouched behind tumbleweed, her head hooded and her sword and mask resting on the ground near her.

Catriel fixed her gaze onto her friend below. "No one tells me what to do."

"Don't I know that." Varia shook her head, exasperation audible in the tone of her voice. "You will be seen from up there. Come down, at least."

"They will see me when I reveal myself." Catriel lowered herself to a squat and turned her attention to the horizon to her left; the sun was dimming in its descent. To the right of her, the Frostback Mountains loomed overbearingly into the sky. Night would be upon them soon. She was not afraid though. Her whole life had been preparing herself for things like this. She would prove that she was ready, prove wrong everyone who thought she wasn't.

The sparse grass rippled and sang, but not from the wind. Catriel spied somebody crawling through it, a green eyeless face looking to the sky. They reached Varia and turned their head toward Catriel, wrenching the green mask from face as if peeling back the skin. It was Fenarel.

"I told you to stay away," he whispered loudly. "This is no place for a child."

Catriel turned away. Her nostrils flared in anger at his words but she would not respond with words this time but with the skill of her bow. Fenarel would see that she was not a child anymore.

"Fine, ignore me," Fenarel said when Catriel did not say anything. "Just stay out of our way and don't show yourself to the enemy."

Varia snorted. "She doesn't intend to do that. She already told me she will make herself seen."

Catriel shifted her attention back down to her friends. She sent an angry glare in Varia's direction before meeting Fenarel's gaze. She was expecting it to be angry and so was surprised to see a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. A blush spread over her cheeks as the corners of his mouth lifted into a smirk. She was glad the distance between them was great and that the light was fading.

"Perhaps we can use her to our advantage then," Fenarel suggested.

Varia looked at him quizzically. "Her mother will kill us. It is too dangerous. Do not encourage her."

"What would you have me do?" Catriel asked. She was curious as to what Fenarel thought she could bring to this ambush.

"Never mind. Varia is right. I wish not to be killed by our most illustrious leader. You are just a girl." Fenarel winked once before pulling the mask back over his face.

Catriel felt the fury building within her once more at hearing those words come out of his mouth again. What was he trying to do by riling her up? Was he trying to goad her into coming down and pummeling him into the ground so that he could get her out of harm's way? Well, it wouldn't work. She made a big show of pulling out an arrow from her quiver and nocking it to her bow. She shifted from her squat by leaning onto one knee and then stretched her arm out, taking aim at the road. She would not move from her perch until it was necessary.

Below her, Varia and Fenarel chuckled together in conspiracy.

_I'll show them both_, Catriel thought as she attempted to ignore them.

"They come!" someone whispered loudly from behind a fallen column below.

All chuckles stopped. The sound of insects beginning their evening songs invaded the fading day. Catriel scanned the road for signs of the expected caravan from Jader. She heard the pounding of hooves and the rattle of wheels turning over stone overcome the buzzing of the insects before she saw. The bright plumage of the chevalier's shiny helmets caught her attention first. There were two of the mounted knights; one escort for each wagon.

A bit of disappointment crept into Catriel. She was expecting a larger caravan, with more chevaliers, the greater for her glory. She supposed she would have to be content with this small contingent.

As the small caravan approached ever closer to her friends lying await in ambush, she risked a glimpse at her companions. Varia had pulled on her mask, just as the others she could see had. Wearing masks was another of her mother's rules. It covered their _vallaslin_ and it also mocked the Orlesian custom among nobles to wear masks. Most of all, it meant hiding their identities, so the Orlesians would not retaliate against any city kin.

One day they would not hide their identities. One day their purpose would be felt around Thedas. Catriel could not wait for that moment. For now it was just another rule which Catriel was unintentionally breaking. She hadn't had time to grab one in her rush to follow her friends. She didn't intend to be seen, despite telling Varia otherwise. She was not stupid; she would not risk the safety of the kin in Halamshiral. Though if Catriel were seen – she had no _vallaslin_ as of yet and her eyes were not the typical elven shades of green but a blue color that often shifted to grey in different light. She could pass as just another human bandit as long as her hood stayed up.

The caravan was in her range now. Catriel's breath came slow and quiet. She found her heart pounding faster than it ever had. She was nervous, yet she was excited. Her arm quivered as she fought to hold the arrow in place. It wasn't time to fire yet. She fixed her aim onto one of the chevalier's hands. It hovered over the hilt of his sword as the horse seemed to sense the Masked Rebels in wait and it trotted sideways, away from the wagon. The chevalier calmly tried to rein in his skittish horse.

The rebels emerged from the side of the highway at that moment, ululating like a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. Their appearance sparked looks of fear among the merchants who snapped whips upon the horses pulling their wagons in an attempt to flee. But the rebels were too quick. They darted toward the vehicles, cutting through the ropes that attached the horses, staying the wagons. The chevaliers reacted without alarm, only defended the wagons like they were trained to do.

Catriel watched as the one she had singled out moments before gripped the hilt of his sword and brought it up into the air, ready to slash one of her friends. She let her arrow loose. It whizzed through the air and struck the chevalier in the wrist. It did not harm the man for he wore gauntlets, but it gave her friend time to leap onto the horse and disarm the man.

The chevaliers were outnumbered. The merchants were too terrified to fight back. Within moments the Masked Rebels had disarmed them all and unhorsed the chevaliers. They were not out to kill, only to take what they could from the wagons, another of her mother's rules. Catriel slid down from the Tevinter column and crept closer to the ambush.

Fenarel may not have been out to kill, but Catriel smiled as she noticed that he was out to embarrass the Orlesians. With a simple snap of his fingers, Fenarel had his companions stripping the chevaliers of their heavy plate armour. Varia removed the fancy helmet of one of the knights. A look of disgust crept across the man's face.

"_Les rebelles masque_." He spat at the ground in front of Varia's feet.

Catriel slinked behind them all to the wagons behind. She climbed on top of one and watched in amusement as Varia backhanded the Orlesian knight. The man remained steel faced as a drip of blood fell from the corner of his mouth after Varia's assault. In spite of her general hatred for the Orlesians, Catriel couldn't help but be impressed at the man's decorum in the face of the embarrassing situation he found himself in. His sword and shield were taken away and his armour thrown to the ground. He had only his smallclothes to himself now. Varia held onto his helmet, lovingly fingering the plumage. She would no doubt claim it for herself.

The merchants, on the other hand, did not impress Catriel. As she rummaged through their cargo, she could hear their sobs and pleas to be let go. _Pathetic_, she thought. She sighed in frustration as she realized the cargo was nothing but clothing and materials for the same. Before she stood up, she shoved a blue dress into her leather pack. She could make something useful out of it.

When next she turned her attention back to Fenarel's antics, the two chevaliers were being piled up onto a horse, tied closely together. Catriel giggled at the sight, remembering too late that she did not wear a mask. The chevalier whom she had shot moments before turned to look in her direction. Though it was darkening out, there was still light enough to be visible. His hateful eyes met hers for the briefest of moments. She felt a chill run down her spine before Fenarel slapped the horse on its rump and the creature carried them away.

"He saw me," she whispered to herself. She tried to shake off the feeling of violation that invaded her. The man would not remember her. He would not know her to be Dalish. It was impossible to tell, right?

The merchants were gathered up in the same way as the chevaliers. Catriel jumped down from the wagon to watch. An uneasy feeling caused her to twirl around – someone was running straight for her with a knife held high in the air. She had no time to think, only react. She pulled her bow loose from her shoulder, grabbed an arrow from her quiver and set it to string so quickly, her assailant seemed to still be running as the arrow lodged into the bottom of his throat. He fell backward with a thud. She stood frozen in her archer's pose.

The galloping away of the remaining horses carrying the merchants naked and gagged atop them, removed Catriel from her shock. She let out the breath she did not know she had been holding and felt her heart beat beneath her chest once more. She lowered her bow and walked carefully toward her assailant resting on the ground. His chest rose and fell unsteadily. She could hear him struggling to breathe. As she reached him, she crouched forward tentatively, her eyes transfixed by her arrow protruding from the space where neck meets chest.

"_S'il vous plait…la douleur…_" The man held the knife out to her hilt first, pleading for her to end the pain. She met his eyes – they were a shiny green. She turned from his gaze to watch the knife shake in his hand. He had been about to kill her. Now he begged her to finish what she had started. She felt a lump in her throat. She didn't know if she could do it after all. She had trained for this. Yet, it was more than she ever thought it would be. Could she take his life?

"_Envoyez-moi __à__ Mythal…_" Catriel's eyes widened in surprise. He was asking her to send him to Mythal. She took a closer look at the man. He wore a leather cap, his hair long and blonde. She removed the cap and brushed his hair back – he was _elvhen_. She cried out in shock. She had killed one of her own.

Fenarel and the others appeared behind her, finally noticing what had happened. Catriel looked up at Fenarel in guilt. He crouched beside her and gently pushed her away. Removing his mask he examined the elf before them. Fenarel's face turned sympathetic as he accepted the knife from the elf.

"_Ma serannas_," the elf said through sputtering breaths. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the end. In one quick movement, Fenarel brought the knife across the elf's neck, ending the suffering.

"We should head back," Fenarel said as he stood up, like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. He dropped the knife to the ground. "Gather what you can and let's be off."

Catriel could not move as the others silently walked away. She stared at the elf, the life gone from his eyes. She had done this to him. He was kin. It should not have happened. She ran her hand over his eyes, closing them for the very last time from seeing this world.

Varia placed a hand on her shoulder. "We must go."

"Who will send him to the Beyond?" Catriel asked, her voice lined with guilt. Without the proper rites he would remain lost in this world, forever wandering the land as a spirit.

"His people will find him," Varia replied. She tugged at Catriel's shirt.

"We are his people." Catriel reached for the knife and plucked it up. It dripped blood onto the ground. It was a simple hunting knife, meant only for skinning, not ending a life. She dragged herself up from the ground.

"Catriel," Varia gripped both her shoulders. "He tried to kill you. You did what you had to in order to survive. Do not dwell on this. His people will find him and send him to the Beyond. We must go now."

Catriel could not do as Varia said. She could not stop her thoughts from thinking about this man she had taken life from. Perhaps he was a father. What would his children do now? She shoved her hood back in frustration. The man did not know she was _elvhen_. She did not know he was _elvhen_. Why were they against each other?

Catriel let herself be pulled away by Varia. She barely knew how she was able to walk. All she could see in her mind was the man she had killed. She was surprised she did not stumble as they travelled home. She climbed upon the rocky path, not even aware that she did so.

As night at last overtook them and they reached just outside the camp, Fenarel halted the small group. Catriel did not hear everything he said, but she knew that he made everyone promise not to speak of the life they took. She felt the tears roll silently down her cheeks.

_Fenarel says "they" when everyone knows it was me_…

She'd thought to make this foray proof of her abilities. When she looked around at the small group nodding their agreement with Fenarel, she saw not disgust upon their faces, but pride. Pride for her. How could this be? They were proud of her. They were sure of her abilities now. This was not how she had wanted to go about it. Catriel knew in her heart that she would never be the same.

* * *

Translations:

_mamae = mother_

_vallaslin = Dalish tattoos_

_Les rebelles masque = The masked rebels_

_S'il vous plait…la douleur… = Please, the pain_

_Envoyez-moi __à__ Mythal… = send me to Mythal_

_Ma serannas = Dalish thank you_

_Elvhen = the way Dalish/elves refer to themselves_


	3. Chapter Two: Guilty and Unworthy

Chapter Two  
Guilty and Unworthy

The glint of metal alerted her to an unwanted presence. As she lay on her back, Catriel noticed the knife hovering above her. The knife she pocketed from the dead man one night before. A dread fear bubbled up inside her stomach, knotting it tightly. It spread throughout her body as she searched for who it was that held the hunting knife.

The fear paralyzed her body, though. Only her eyeballs could move, yet that was no mercy for her eyelids would not shut. She desperately wanted to close her eyes when the hand gripping the knife came into view. Her eyeballs scanned to her left and she gulped down her fear. It was the man she killed.

Catriel's arrow protruded from his neck still. The wound underneath the arrow's tip bled slowly. As the man leaned over her, she felt the drops of blood fall onto her arm, strangely cold to her skin. She looked into his lifeless eyes. It was as if nobody had found his body after all. Nobody had sent him to the Beyond. And now he was haunting her.

Catriel could only watch in horror as he brought the knife to rest by the flat of the blade against her arm. It was even colder than the blood. She wanted to call out for help but couldn't find her voice.

_I am elvhen_, her mind screamed out. _You must stop; you must let me go._

The blade ran across the length of her arm. It sent her into a shiver and grew goose bumps along her body. Her heart pounded painfully against her chest. Why couldn't she move? Why couldn't she speak? The fear had quickly turned to terror at the movement of the blade along her arm.

And then the blade of the knife pierced through her skin. She couldn't even cry out at the stinging pain. The man guided the knife under her skin, pushing it down along her arm, skinning her as if she were a deer. Yet she was alive. He didn't seem to know though. He continued the painful exercise with an expressionless face. She wished she would die the pain was so great. As she glimpsed the skin being pulled off her arm and the skeletal, meaty mess beneath she felt the tears trailing down her face and onto her neck.

"Please stop, please!" she cried out.

Amazed that she seemed to have finally found her voice, Catriel attempted to sit up. It worked, but suddenly everything was black. Her heart continued to pound, her breath came in great gasps and she was shaking. She realized that she was awake at that moment, though her eyes remained closed. Frightened to open her eyes, Catriel instead ran a hand along her arm to find it smooth. Her skin was still there. With a great exhalation she opened her eyes to the dimly lit cavern, the familiar sight of the baskets of herbs resting against the wall greeting her. Breathing in the air, the damp earthy smell of home wafted into her nostrils.

It had only been a night terror.

Catriel was glad that she was alone. She wouldn't have wanted to explain that to her mother or anybody else. Shoving the blankets off of herself, she stood up and stretched her arms. She grew annoyed when she found that her legs were still a bit shaky from the dream.

_You are not a child anymore to be scared of dreams_, she chided herself.

It didn't, however, make her feel any better. When she was a girl, she would run to her mother's arms after a bad dream. If her mother were home, she thought she just might have done so again, and then all her proving of herself would have gone to naught.

_It was that which got you into this state in the first place_.

The dream had felt so real. She stroked her arms, making sure again that her skin was still there. She examined her body for signs of his blood. Everything was as clean as it had been the day before, which wasn't all that sparkly truth be told. But there was no blood at least.

"Good morning," a voice boomed out from behind her. Startled, Catriel turned around quickly, still apprehensive from her dream.

"Fenarel," Catriel whispered. Her older friend strode toward her with a warm smile.

"You did not join in the celebration," Fenarel said as he halted before her.

She remembered lying alone in her blankets the night before, the cavern dark and damp. The echo of drums pounded through the tunnels from the largest cavern, a place of gathering. Catriel had listened to the hoots, to the loud voices, the songs of celebration with a sorrowful heart. All she wanted was to sleep, to forget about what had happened, but it had not come easily, and when it did it had been no balm.

And how could she have joined in the celebration? She felt guilty for what she had done. A man was dead because of her. Because she had insisted on proving herself as no simple girl child to everyone. And now she was having bad dreams, just as a child would. Yet, perhaps her dream was telling her something. Perhaps nobody had taken care of his body. Maybe he actually was haunting her. If that were the case, she'd have to make it right.

"Apologies… I…" Catriel's words trailed off into nothing. She couldn't stop her thoughts from racing. She would have to slip away sometime soon and go back to the place of the ambush. If the man was still there, like her dreams were telling her… she'd have to send him to the Beyond or else she'd never get any rest. The guilt in her heart might even ease off a bit…

"You were very brave yesterday," Fenarel said. His words broke her from her tortured reverie. "Even if I told you not to follow and would have liked nothing more than to twist your ears until you went home."

"I wouldn't blame you if you still felt that way." Catriel could not meet Fenarel's gaze. He was easy to look at, usually, with his strawberry blonde hair and warm brown eyes. But now, all she saw when she looked upon him was what happened the night before. She didn't want him to see her distress.

"And why should I? Your arrows were like sweet raindrops from the gods. Without them, we might not have succeeded in our humiliation of the Orlesian _shems_."

"Sweet raindrops from the gods?" Catriel asked in slight amusement. "You begin to sound like my mother."

Fenarel chuckled. "And I feel as proud as a mother… well, maybe more like a big brother."

Catriel's amusement faded away. "I killed somebody. One of us. I don't understand how you can be so ordinary, so proud of me. You act as if it is a common occurrence."

"_It is_ a common occurrence," Fenarel said apologetically. "People, _elvhen_, die every day. Remember, the man came after you. You were defending yourself. Anyone would have done the same were they caught in the same situation."

Catriel thought of their disguises, the hood she wore to cover her identity. "But what if he had known I was _elvhen_?"

"He may have attacked you anyway. City elves – _flat ears_ – have no loyalty like we do. They fight for themselves, think only of themselves." Fenarel's gaze narrowed in disgust. "They are pets of the _shems_."

"Mother says we need to win over our city kin if we are ever to reclaim the Dales. How can we do that when I killed one?"

"They may be our kin, but that doesn't mean I have to like them. Don't take this the wrong way, Cat, but your mother is much too kind. If it were me in charge, I wouldn't bother with the flat ears. Too much contact with the _shems_ has corrupted them. And I grow impatient with this game of harassment we play month after month. I long for real battle, for real rebellion."

"But…" Catriel shifted on her feet nervously. She did not want to be hearing this about her mother. She looked away from Fenarel.

Fenarel sighed and then reached for Catriel's chin, turning her face towards his own. "Turn these thoughts from your mind and forget I ever said anything about your mother. She is a great leader. But you must not tell her what happened last night."

"You make it sound so easy. How can I not think of what I did?"

"You will learn in time. One can never forget what happens in battle, but you will learn to bear it."

Catriel batted Fenarel's hand away from her in frustration. He made it sound like she would never be free of this guilt inside of her. "How?" she asked.

"It is different for everyone."

He wouldn't tell her. It was not fair. He must know of a way. But perhaps she didn't need to hear it from him. Her dream had already told her what she needed to do. She began to think of how to do so. Her mother would be home very soon. She would have to evade her until she could send the spirit of the man she had killed to the Beyond.

Fenarel took her silence for something else and he reached for her hands. "You did nothing wrong. Remember that I killed him."

"It was my arrow…"

"And I finished it. Think of it no more, please."

"Fine," she lied. It was all she could think of. But if a lie would get Fenarel off of her back, then it was a noble one.

Satisfied, Fenarel let go of her hands. "I have something for you." He reached behind his back and brought forward a long, narrow, and wrapped bundle. She hadn't noticed him carrying it before then.

"What is it?" she asked. Her eyes opened wide in curiousity.

He put the bundle in her hands and nodded slightly. "Go ahead, open it."

Catriel opened the bundle slowly. By the shape of it, she expected it to be a sword, but somehow, when it came clearly into view, she remained surprised. It was an exquisite longsword. The blade was sharp and smooth, the hilt elegantly carved. She looked to Fenarel in shock.

"Part of the spoils," he explained. "You've earned it."

Catriel held the sword up to the light of the torch. Mesmerized, she could not look away. It was a chevalier's sword and it must look even more spectacular in daylight. At that thought, her senses seemed to come back to her.

"If my mother sees it, she'll know."

And Catriel didn't really think she earned it. But she didn't want to disappoint Fenarel. He was grinning so widely at her that she felt a blush spread over her cheeks. She hoped he wouldn't see.

"Hide it by the clearing where we spar. I'll teach you some new moves," he said.

Catriel increased the distance between her and Fenarel. She was touched that he would think to give this to her. Surely, somebody older and more skilled with a blade deserved it more than she did. Despite feeling unworthy of the blade, it was raising her spirits somewhat. She turned it in the torchlight and gazed at it wonderingly.

"I have been wanting a real blade for long now. I've grown weary of sparring with wood." Catriel took a practice swing at the air. She twirled around to face Fenarel once more. She found herself beaming at him.

"Take care of it, that's all I ask of you."

"_Ma serannas_, Fenarel. I will take very good care of it." Catriel set the sword down carefully onto her discarded blankets and then launched herself at her friend. She wrapped him into a hug he could not easily break free of.

"Don't worry about your mother. I won't tell her you followed us."

Catriel broke free and sent a worried glance at Fenarel. "You think she'll find out?"

"Doesn't she always?" Fenarel laughed. "I should go now."

Fenarel left as quietly as he had entered. Catriel bit her lip in thought. No, her mother was not stupid, she always found out everything. She would know the moment she set eyes on Catriel that something had changed. Catriel had to forget then, like Fenarel had said. Her mother would never forgive her if she knew Catriel had killed one of their own.

The plans she had begun to formulate in her mind during Fenarel's visit suddenly took on an urgency they hadn't owned before. If she were to forget, she had to go back. She had to send the spirit of the man to the Beyond.

And Catriel had to do it alone.


	4. Chapter Three: The Search for Absolution

Chapter Three  
The Search for Absolution

Catriel left the cavern not long after hiding her new sword in her blankets. She had slept through to mid-morning, unfortunate for that would not give her much time to sneak away. The day was turning out to be grey and rain looked to be threatening. None of that really mattered to her, for she vowed to make things right and once she was set on doing something, it was difficult to change her mind. She hated to give up on anything.

Determined, Catriel wandered through the hideout she had called home since the beginning of the Orlesian Civil war nine years ago. She had been very young then. She could barely remember coming here or what she and her mother did before this. This build up to a rebellion was all she ever knew, it was all she ever trained for. So when everyone refused to take her seriously and treated her like a child, leaving her behind from all the fun, well, that was what had gotten her into this situation.

Catriel stopped behind a large pine and eyed the camp. It was all very natural looking. For someone from the outside who happened to walk into it, they probably wouldn't even know it was a rebel hideout. There were no buildings of any kind, not even any _aravels_. People slept in the caverns for the most part and avoided making any large fires outside. The ground was worn where people walked day in and day out, but otherwise it looked just like any other part of the mountain. They needed stealth and they needed mobility. If anything happened, they could disappear quickly.

Even if it didn't look like anybody lived around here, there were hidden arrows and spears trained in every possible direction, just waiting and daring intruders to enter. Catriel would have to get through the sentries. Getting out was not as easy as getting back in. People who left were questioned severely. Not everybody could be trusted to keep this camp a secret.

When her friends had left the night before, it was for a good reason. They needed supplies and had been tipped off to the trade caravan by one of their city kin, for all Fenarel talked down about them. The sentries had let them through, knowing the need and knowing that harassing the trade routes was something that her mother, their leader, always emphasized. They believed it had been allowed. But it hadn't been. Her mother was away, due back this day.

Catriel darted through the pines that dotted the mountain. She avoided the gaze of anyone who happened to be outside and fixed her eyes on the rocky outcropping to the west of the camp. The jumble of rocks was a favorite place for her. Here she could sit on one of the large rocks and just gaze out over the mountainside to the Dales below. It was also here that she had a way out without being seen. The sentries did not bother with this part, for nobody dared to climb up the rocks, let alone down them. Nobody, except of course, Catriel herself.

She reached the spot with no problems. Standing on her favorite rock, she glanced at the ominous clouds spreading out over the sky. The wind remained light, flitting through her hair like a gentle caress. Touching her bow at her back once for encouragement, she took a deep breath and then began to climb down the rocks.

It was a treacherous task. One slip of the foot, one misplaced hand and a tumble down the mountain was the result. But Catriel had done this many times, had done it just yesterday. She was agile and strong and knew every crevice and weak part. She was down in no time.

Before she could continue on to the site of the ambush, she had to find a few things. She wasn't sure if she could find them, but there remained a few trees this close to the mountain before the dusty, barren landscape of the Dales swallowed up everything else.

"Gods open my eyes for this task," Catriel whispered loudly.

She searched the ground for the one thing that would make it easier to find what she was looking for: acorns. Shuffling her feet through the ground, pushing away dead leaves and twigs, she spotted a scattering of acorns beneath a tree. Rushing to the tree, she glanced up at the tall oak. She fingered her chin in thought. However was she going to get an oak staff from this monster of a tree?

Catriel scanned the ground to see if there was any fallen branch from the tree, but there was none. "I guess I shall have to climb it then."

With a burst of speed, she climbed into the oak, feeling its limbs for any weakness. The cluster of leaves made a peaceful sound as the wind blew through. Not far up, Catriel grabbed a hold of a thin branch and pulled. A loud snapping sound told her she had broken the limb from the tree.

"Forgive me," she whispered to the oak tree, patting the stump once before jumping down with the broken branch. Breaking off the smaller limbs and plucking away the leaves, Catriel stuck the branch into the ground. It was almost her height. It would do for a staff. Her first task was done.

"Now, I need a cedar branch." Catriel had spotted a cedar tree when she was climbing down from the rocks. It was one of the taller trees around, taller even than the oak. Picking up the oak staff, she made her way to the cedar. This time, she would not have to climb, for she saw a smattering of branches fallen to the ground beneath the tree. She plucked one up and examined it.

"Still alive." The fragrant smell remained, a joy to breathe in. A spider had spun a web among the leaves. Catriel gently picked up the little creature. She watched for a second as it ran along her arm before picking it up again and placing it upon the stump of a nearby tree. "A new home for you."

The wind picked up, blowing her hair up and around. Catriel took a peek at the sky through the tops of the trees. The clouds looked ready to burst. She had to be quick. Gathering up the oak staff and the cedar branch, she made her way towards the site of the ambush. With any luck, she would soon be free of the guilt that hung around her neck like a noose.

…

_Vultures_.

Catriel's heart began to race as she spotted the birds soaring overhead. It meant no one had come for the dead man. Her dream had been right. She shuddered involuntarily as one of the large birds descended to the ground, hidden behind one of the crumbling Tevinter columns.

Catriel crept to the edge of the highway and then crawled behind one of the fallen columns. The caravan remained where it had been last night. First she made sure the only other visitors to this place were the vultures. When she was satisfied that was indeed the case, Catriel ran to the side of one of the wagons. She placed the oak staff and the cedar branch onto the ground and without making a sound, removed her bow from her back. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and set her sights onto the vultures pecking at the dead man.

Catriel moved forward in a slow pace. She was wary of angering the birds. They were huge, with bald red heads and long hooked bills. She did not want their attentions turned on her, even if they preferred carrion. But they were desecrating his body. The vultures hissed and grunted around him, a terrifying sound, really, that made Catriel's heart pound in anxiety. It was the only sounds they ever made.

She took a deep, trembling breath to gather her courage. She would not let these birds have him. She nocked her arrow to her bowstring and then pulled the arrow back. She took aim at a bird. The anger within her grew to replace the fear of the birds.

"You will not have him!" she shouted.

She bent her bow and then released. The arrow propelled forward, whizzing through the air with a vengeance. It struck one of the birds square in the head. She raced ahead, stomping the ground and roaring at the rest of the scavengers. The sudden movement startled the vultures and they hopped around with grunts, unwilling to let go of their meal. Catriel kicked dust at them. She nocked another arrow and sent it flying at the group, not bothering to aim this time. This time they flew away, wavering in the growing strength of the wind.

Catriel slowly turned her attention to the dead man. She was afraid of what she would see, of what the birds had left of him. The wind blew the smell into her nostrils and she nearly gagged. But it was nothing compared to the dead man himself. His eyes were gone. Parts of him were torn open and his insides spilled out. With a cry, Catriel ran back to the wagon. She held her stomach with one hand and with the other covered her face in shame.

_I did this._

She tried not to retch. When she was sure she could hold her stomach she climbed into the back of the wagon and searched through what was left. She found a bolt of cloth and placed it under her arm. She jumped to the ground and recovered the oak staff and cedar branch. She gulped back a sob and walked back to the dead man.

Catriel unrolled the bolt of cloth, all the while trying to avoid looking at what was left of the man she had killed the night before. It was very hard. Guilt ran rampant through her body, through her mind. If she had never followed her friends, he might yet be alive.

She used the cloth to cover his body. Perhaps if there was time she would drag him beneath a tree and bury him.

_Not perhaps. It is what you need to do_.

For now, she searched her mind, trying to remember the last time she heard her mother say a prayer for the dead. It was not so long ago that she should remember. But she had never paid much attention to these sorts of things. She always believed someone else would be there to say it. She never thought she would need to say the words herself.

The memory slowly returned to her. It had been one of the _hahren_, one of only two elders among them. An image of her mother reciting the words entered into her mind. She closed her eyes to capture it and to listen closely.

"Elgar'nan, All-Father, born of the sun and earth, Mythal, Protector of all, mother of all, please lend your aid in guiding this man towards the peaceful Beyond." The words came out of her mouth as she remembered her mother doing the same. She paused to place the oak staff atop of him. "To help you find your way."

It began to rain. The drops came slowly, and felt cold as they met her face.

"Dirthamen, may you rein in the ravens, Fear and Deceit, so this man may walk a clear path." Catriel placed the cedar branch over him. "In case the ravens don't listen to Dirthamen," she whispered in explanation.

"Resist the temptation of Fen'Harel, for he is a betrayer and will bring you only grief. Travel to the Beyond, for it is where you belong. Falon'Din,_ Lethanavir_, Friend to the dead will bring you through, be not afraid. You will see it is a place of peace, rest, and happiness and something to be yearned for, even more than those left behind."

Catriel wished she knew his name. "May you pass the Forgotten Ones unseen."

This would be the time when her mother would recite _In Uthenera_. But Catriel had foolishly put off learning many things in favour of the always amusing hands on training. She regretted it now. She didn't have time to finish however, for the sound of hooves reached through the rain. Catriel plunged away from the dead man to the side of the highway. She pressed her back against yet another fallen column and held her breath.

Orlesian voices broke through the peaceful silence she had brought upon the ambush with her prayer. She risked a glance to see a dozen or so mounted guards led by a chevalier. Her heart nearly stopped as she recognized the man – it was the one that had seen her face. She slouched lower and turned away from the intrusion. She wondered what to do. She was not done. She had to bury him. But she could not be seen again.

"_Quelqu'un a été ici depuis la nuit_."

Catriel could not help satisfying her curiousity. She peeked up again to see the chevalier holding the vulture she had killed. Her anger flared as he kicked away the oak staff and the cedar branch from the dead man's body. She was just about to lose all control and leap onto the highway to give the man a piece of her mind when she was stilled by a hand coming up from behind to cover her mouth.

Her anger quickly turned to panic. She squirmed away, batting the hand away. What she saw shocked her, terrified her even.

It was her mother.

Catriel's mouth opened, but her mother put a finger to her mouth, shushing her and warning her all at once.

"_Ser Thierry, qu'est-ce que vous voulez qu'on faire?_"

Her mother stopped her from looking again. Catriel guessed that Ser Thierry was the chevalier and that he was in command of these Orlesian fools.

"_Ramassez les wagons et mettez le sauvage dans un. Trouvez n'importe quoi qu'on pouvait associe avec les sauvages du foret._"

Catriel bit her lip in worry. Ser Thierry had seen her. Now he thought, no he knew the Dalish were responsible for the ambush. She cast her eyes downwards, unable to meet her mother's lingering gaze. She was in so much trouble.

They waited in silence, not daring to move or speak until they were sure the chevalier and his guards from Jader were gone. The rain picked up, drenching them both. When the sounds of the wagons, the horses, and the grumpy Orlesians faded away, Catriel jumped out of hiding. She heard her mother curse as she ran to where the dead man had been.

He was gone. They had taken his body. She wouldn't get to finish her prayer. She almost wanted to cry.

Her mother came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her around to face her.

"I am proud of you," her mother said.

Catriel shook her head. "You shouldn't be."

"I have been following you since you climbed down the rocks. I saw what you did for that man."

"If you knew why I did that, you wouldn't be so proud."

"Then tell me what is wrong and I shall decide for myself whether or not I should be proud."

Catriel wavered. She didn't want to admit what had happened. Her mother had followed her. She should have known. She should have felt being watched. She shivered slightly in the rain as her mother studied her intently. Her mother was soaked to the bones, her hair looked darker than it usually was and her _vallaslin_ seemed warped by the water dripping down her face. Yet her grey eyes were warm.

"It's supposed to be a secret." Catriel jutted her chin out defiantly.

Her mother would not be deterred. "It's no secret if three people know it. Judging by what I just saw, more than three people know of what happened here."

Catriel would have to tell her everything then. She hoped Fenarel, Varia and the rest of them would not be angry with her. There was no escaping her mother.

"I followed them to the ambush," Catriel admitted with lowered eyes.

"I said not to do anything while I was away." Her mother frowned and then gestured for her to continue.

"I know, but… Fenarel wanted to go when Guion mentioned there would be a caravan passing. And I wanted to follow them. Don't get mad at Fenarel. He told me not to come. He told me to stay away. But I didn't listen."

Her mother sighed loudly and crossed her arms over her chest. "Neither of you ever listen. What happened next? I gather there is more to this."

Catriel nodded. "There were only two chevaliers guarding the two wagons. Ser Thierry was one of them. We unhorsed them and stripped them of everything. Then we sent them and the cowardly merchants on their way back to Jader. And then it happened." She hesitated to go on with the recounting.

"Don't still your tongue now. Continue."

"That man, he came after me, with a knife." Catriel pulled the hunting knife from her belt. She handed it to her mother. She was going to bury it with the man. But now that was not possible. "I didn't have time to think. I grabbed my bow and shot him in the neck. I didn't know he was _elvhen_."

She couldn't bear to look at her mother then. She was afraid to see her mother's reaction to the confession resting on the edge of her tongue.

"I killed him…"

The moment dragged on. The rain continued to pour. The wind howled now and picked up speed. Catriel did not meet her mother's gaze. Her heart raced as she waited for a response. And then her mother took her hand and placed the knife into it.

"You came back alone to make things right." It was not a question but a statement. Her mother certainly knew her well.

Catriel nodded. She studied the knife absentmindedly before placing it back into her belt. "I thought if I sent him to the Beyond properly, he would stop haunting me… that I would feel… better… I never meant to kill him."

"Your actions cannot be undone, but your reaction to it all was well intentioned, even if it was boneheaded," her mother finally said.

"I am sorry, _mamae_, really."

"What do you think would have happened had you been seen? I have seen Ser Thierry operating in Jader. He is ruthless and evil."

Catriel hunched in shame. Ser Thierry _had_ seen her last night. She resolved then and there not to tell her mother that part. It was all too much for her already.

"As for the man you killed, it could not be helped. You defended yourself. You should not have come here alone. You should have waited for me and told me everything. I should not have had to follow you and seen this to find out everything."

"Apologies." This time Catriel looked her mother in the eye. "I kept thinking what if he had children? They will not know their father. I know what that feels like, _mamae, _it is not a good feeling."

A guilty look overcame her mother's face then. "I know, _emma'sha_, it tears the heart to think of the possibility."

"Fenarel told me to not think of the man. How can I do that?"

"It is not something that will go away overnight."

"Will it ever go away?"

Her mother shook her head sadly. She reached forward and gathered Catriel in an embrace. Despite the fact that they were both soaking wet, it was warm and instantly made Catriel feel better, like she had been forgiven for her sin, absolved of her guilt. Her mother stroked her hair like when she was a child. Her mother was not disgusted by her actions at all. Catriel almost wanted to cry again, but she held it in.

"You are too young for this," her mother said.

Catriel broke away. She felt the anger bubbling up inside her again. She tried to push it down. It wouldn't do to get angry with her mother. Instead, she blurted out something she had not intended to. "Fenarel says you are too kind. That we should not trust our city kin. That the man I killed probably would have killed me anyway if he knew I was _elvhen_. Fenarel is tired of playing these games of harassment."

"Fenarel says many things."

Catriel immediately regretted what had come out of her mouth. Her mother had a thoughtful look on her face. That couldn't mean anything good, could it? She wouldn't kick Fenarel out, would she? Catriel really liked Fenarel. She shouldn't have repeated what he had said.

"Come." Her mother held a hand out to her. "We should return home before we catch a chill. We will speak more of your punishment later."

_My punishment?_ Catriel thought. It figured her mother would not let her get away with this, even if she did show sympathy for what Catriel had done. She had been expecting anger from her mother, not this quiet thoughtfulness. It worried Catriel. But she took her mother's hand anyway.

She wondered with dread what was to happen to her.

_And what of Fenarel? What will happen to him?_

She deserved to be punished and not Fenarel.

* * *

Translations:

_Quelqu'un a été ici depuis la nuit_. = Someone has been here since last night.

_Ser Thierry, qu'est-ce que vous voulez qu'on faire?_ = Ser Thierry, what do you want us to do?

_Ramassez les wagons et mettez le sauvage dans un. Trouvez n'importe quoi qu'on pouvait associe avec les sauvages du foret._ = Gather the wagons and put the savage in one of them. Find anything that can be linked to the savages of the forest.


	5. Chapter Four: This is a Reckoning

Chapter Four  
This is a Reckoning

Catriel combed the tangles out of her hair. The wind and the rain had really done a number to her locks. It was a tiresome task, but it would be worth it in the end. She couldn't go around looking like a dirty child anymore, not after insisting so hard that she wasn't. Even if she had proven herself in her friends' eyes, she didn't think the others were so easily tricked.

Catriel had replaced her wet, mud soaked clothes with her second set, which, truth be told, was a little too small for her. The tunic was rather tight and the leggings reached high above her ankles. She found herself constantly tugging the tunic away from her neck as it choked her while she fixed her hair.

Putting the elegantly carved comb down, she had enough. She searched around for something sharp. Her hand rested on the hunting knife hidden in her belt. After a second of hesitation, she pulled it out and brought it to her tunic's neckline. She cut down, freeing her neck from the irritating tightness. Catriel quickly returned the knife to her belt, not wishing to think of where it came from.

_I never want to think of that again_.

She felt like a failure for not finishing what she had started. If only the stupid Orlesians had not shown up she would have buried him. Perhaps she had managed to send him to the Beyond before they showed up. She would only find out in her dreams – if she could ever succumb to slumber again. The thought of having another nightmare made Catriel apprehensive and unwilling to sleep, though the night was still some hours away.

Catriel was alone in the small part of the caverns she shared with her mother. When they had returned, her mother had changed her clothes and then gone off. Catriel bit her lip in worry. Her mother was another reason for her growing apprehension. She had been quiet all the way back. Catriel did not like that.

To distract her mind from all worrisome thoughts and to calm the feeling of tightness in her chest, which she knew was not from the tight tunic, she dug in her pack and pulled out the blue dress she had taken from the trade wagon. It was fancy, like all Orlesian things, and made of fine material. The blue coloring was rich and the hems were threaded with gold. She picked at the thread curiously, wondering if it was actually spun gold.

"No, it can't be. Who would be so stupid as to put gold in their dress?" Catriel chuckled to herself. She ran a hand down the dress, loving the soft feeling.

As she pondered what to do with the dress, debating whether to cut it up into something useful, perhaps a new tunic, or to hold onto it to one day trade with, Varia stalked into the area from the tunnel beyond. She plopped herself in front of Catriel.

"Careful!" Catriel warned. She tossed the dress back into her pack and then reached under the blankets to pull out the sword Fenarel had given to her. "You almost sat on this."

Varia's eyes widened in surprise. "Fenarel gave it to you? Why?"

Catriel nodded and then shrugged. An uneasy feeling crept into her at the look Varia proceeded to give her. Catriel couldn't quite describe it, but she knew she didn't like it. She pushed the sword behind her. She would have to hide it around the sparring field, like Fenarel had told her to.

"I don't know why Fenarel gave it to me. He said I earned it."

Varia continued to stare at her. Catriel had always admired the older girl. Varia had such pretty red hair and nice green eyes. Her _vallaslin_ were always a wonder to look at too. They swirled around her face in a light green color. And Varia was strong, outspoken, and kind. Usually kind, anyway. Catriel couldn't help but back away from her slightly at the moment.

"Did you tell your mother what happened?" Varia blurted out.

Catriel was momentarily speechless. "N-no, I didn't," she lied. She hoped she was convincing enough for she did not want to get into a fight with Varia.

Varia stared at her with brow creased in concentration, studying her. Catriel did not flinch back but stared back challengingly, with her chin jutted out and her own eyes narrowed. After a moment, Varia sighed and then slouched backward.

"Then why is she calling a gathering?"

"She called a gathering? When?" Catriel asked in surprise.

"Right about now," Varia replied.

Catriel stood up fast. She did not like the sound of this. She dreaded what her mother would say. She hoped her revelations to her mother would not come back to haunt her. Glancing once at Varia, Catriel raced away toward the main cavern.

…

Her mother had indeed called a gathering. Catriel had been hoping that Varia was lying. But everyone was gathered in a circle, just under fifty rebels. Catriel had always been the youngest among them. There were never any other children around. She remembered a couple of times women having babies and then choosing to leave the rebel life. Many of them became contacts in the various cities, Halamshiral and Jader mostly.

Catriel squeezed in between two warriors and nervously waited for her mother to start speaking. She glanced around the circle, meeting Fenarel's eyes once before turning away in shame. She never should have opened her big mouth. She prayed that her mother would not single him out. He would never forgive her, he would never speak to her again and Catriel couldn't bear the thought of that.

Catriel looked to her mother and noticed how the dark haired warrior named Thorn sat close beside her. She frowned at the man. He followed her mother everywhere. Sometimes even to her bed, though only when they thought she was already asleep. Catriel had to admit that he was a good warrior, but she didn't like the attention her mother gave him.

"For many years I wandered Thedas in solitude." Silence pervaded the cavern as her mother began to speak. All eyes turned to her respectfully. "I travelled from clan to clan, believing in my dreams as no other could. I was laughed at. I was mocked. I was believed to be a madwoman. Some even thought me the Dread Wolf come to trick them into folly. To reclaim what was lost to us was all that I ever wanted. No matter the hardships I faced, I never gave up."

Catriel had heard this many times from her mother. She wondered what it meant this time.

"It is impossible, they said. It will never come to be. Orlais will never let their guard down, many warned. But then Orlais began to fall apart. False rumors of rebellion reached the Empress' ears and she came to Halamshiral only to find her own nobility rising up against her elsewhere. The gods, I thought, had given us an opening. So I came here, in the mountains, with my daughter, to watch, to listen."

Catriel remembered little from that time. When bits and pieces did invade her memory, they were mostly good. She'd had her mother all to herself then. There were no raids, no ambushes, just her and her mother in a peaceful forest along the mountain.

"Many of you came as well," her mother continued, meeting faces around the circle. "You left your clans, finally believing in the impossible when months, years before you mocked the idea of a rebellion. I welcomed you all with open arms. The past was left behind, all slights were forgiven. This is not _my_ rebellion, it is not _my _dream. It is _ours_. All this is _ours_." She held out her arms as if in offering.

"We are a family. We protect each other. We provide for each other. When comfort is needed, we give it. When apologies are needed, we give them. When forgiveness is required, we give it. A family must have trust between its members. It must have truth, reliance. Together we breathe, suffer, celebrate, and one day meet our end among those we love and cherish.

"I was young once. Not so long ago. My blood boiled with impatience. But I was never foolish." Her mother focused on Fenarel then and Catriel held her breath. "I went away to Halamshiral for a few days. I return to find that I was betrayed by a handful of you."

Fenarel did not waver under her mother's gaze. Catriel was almost proud to see that he sat straighter, his attention never wandering from the steely gaze of her mother. Many a person had trembled under that particular look, Catriel herself had many times.

"We did not betray you," Fenarel spoke. "We did only what you always preach. We harassed a trading caravan, stole supplies."

"What supplies? I don't see anything." Her mother made a point of searching the cavern.

"A few new weapons. Fabric and the like," Fenarel answered.

"Not in war nor in peace will a dead bee gather honey. You risked my daughter's life for trifles."

And there it was. The thing Catriel was most dreading coming right out of her mother's mouth. It would only get worse from here. She stood up from her seat, intending to stop her mother from saying any more. "He did no such thing. I followed…"

"Sit down," her mother said sternly with no room for argument. She did not even look Catriel's way but continued to glare at Fenarel.

Catriel could do nothing but obey her mother. Cowed, she sat back down in between the two warriors. Her mind raced for a way to stop this gathering from continuing.

"A man was killed. There was to be no killing," her mother said loudly. "I could have let this pass. But because of your foolishness Fenarel…"

"He did not kill the man!" Catriel interrupted, jumping up from her seat once more.

"Sit down and still your tongue daughter or I will have you unceremoniously removed." This time her mother looked her way, anger dancing beneath her features. Catriel slumped back to her seat. Perhaps she should just shut up after all. If not now, her mother would find another time to ruin her friendship with Fenarel.

"Yes, perhaps I was foolish," Fenarel admitted, yet he continued to look defiant.

"The outcome, the consequences of your actions are yet unknown. You may have risked the lives of all of us. Of the people in the cities. Tomorrow is a stranger, but not all strangers are good."

"He was only a flat ear." Fenarel stood up. The frustration in his stance was obvious. Catriel could not help but flinch at his words, however. Fenarel made it sound as if the man was nothing, like he had never mattered. "The _shems _will not react to his death the same way if it had been one of them killed and not a flat ear."

"They will react to humiliation." Catriel's mother arose to meet Fenarel. At her words, Fenarel glanced quickly at Catriel before returning his gaze to her mother. Catriel wanted to crawl away and hide. He knew now that she had betrayed his confidence.

Fenarel lifted his arms in impatience. "So what? Let them come. I tire of this game we play. Let them know who we are. Let the rebellion come alive already. If we keep doing things your way we will all be too old to see the Dales in our hands again. Halamshiral will be a crumbling ruin of a city. Nothing of our past will remain to be claimed."

Catriel's mother retained her calm demeanor. "Do not show your teeth until you can bite. You say let them come. We are not ready if they do. We don't have nearly enough force to fight back. You think I don't want to take back Halamshiral? _Patience_ conquers destiny."

"Patience conquers nothing!" he yelled it in her mother's face. "We cower beneath the stone like the dwarves. Since when do _elvhen_ live like _durgen'len_?"

From the corner of her eye, Catriel noticed Thorn reach for his sword hilt, but her mother motioned with her hand that there was no need to go there.

"Nobody is forcing you to be here, Fenarel. If you want to start a rebellion with your handful of friends, then go do it. But if you want to stay here, you follow my rules. The greater good is more important than your lust for glory and blood."

Fenarel hesitated. He searched the circle but none of his so called friends would meet his eye. He did not look Catriel's way. When all seemed lost, Fenarel backed away from her mother. "_Ma nuvenin_," he said before giving a roar of frustration and stomping away, presumably to sulk.

Her mother watched him walk away before turning to the rest of them. "There is no strength without unity. We must be of the same mind to be successful. Just go, all of you." She waved them away.

Catriel was of a mind to go after Fenarel to apologize to him. She hadn't meant to let their conversation slip to her mother. She never wanted for this to happen. She was halfway across the cavern when her mother's shout stopped her in her tracks.

"Not you," she said.

Catriel turned around with a sigh and walked to her mother. She was so angry, she was so embarrassed by her mother's words that she feared she might say something she would regret. Thankfully, Catriel did not even get the chance to open her mouth.

"I have not punished the others so I will not punish you," her mother said. "The guilt you carry in your heart will suffice. You will refrain from following out future raids. You are a child and that is no place for a child."

"I am not a child!" Catriel hissed. "What must I do to prove this to you?"

"You will listen to me. No raiding for you."

"Why did you do this? Why did you bully Fenarel? Why did you embarrass me? It was all my fault. I am the one that followed him. I am the one that killed someone. Can a simple child do all this?"

Her mother pressed her fingers to her temple. "Do not argue with me, Catriel."

"_Merde!_" Catriel kicked at the ground in her frustration. "At least answer me."

"Have some respect. If you had listened to your mother's words you would have all the answers you need."

Catriel swirled around to meet Thorn. "You go away. I am talking to _my_ mother."

"Enough," her mother commanded. "All right, you want to prove you are not a child anymore, then you can have sentry duty for a month straight, no breaks, all in the early morning."

Catriel opened her mouth to protest when she realized that this could be a good thing. "Fine," Catriel agreed. She was up for the challenge. She would prove to her mother that she could do it.

"Be ready tomorrow." Her mother walked away alone.

"Your mother is only looking out for you, for all of us. You shouldn't speak to her like you did." Thorn had the nerve to stand there and watch with concern as her mother faded into the darkness of a tunnel.

Catriel turned onto the warrior with malice. "Shut up. You are not my father and don't pretend to be so."

Thorn held his hands up in surrender before he turned away from Catriel and walked after her mother. Catriel folded her arms and huffed out the rest of her anger.

_I think I've been had._

Her mother had said the guilt in her heart was punishment enough for the ambush, but Catriel had the sudden sinking feeling that her mother intended the sentry duty to be a sort of punishment in itself. Early morning sentry duty was grueling, boring work. And most of the time it wasn't even a tad bit dangerous. Catriel suspected her mother was expecting her to give up in a fit of boredom and admit that she was still a child.

_Well, I'll show her. I deserve this punishment anyway. I will endure it._

With a shake of her head, Catriel decided to seek the comfort of her rock, even if it meant chancing getting soaked for the second time that day. It was the least of what she deserved after all she had done.

* * *

Translations:

_durgen'len = Dalish word for dwarves_

_Ma nuvenin = as you wish_

_Merde = shit_


	6. Chapter Five: Masquerading Without Masks

Chapter Five  
Masquerading Without Masks

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darker light of the tent. Once it did, Tristan wasn't surprised at what he saw. Sam remained fast asleep even this late in the morning. With an inward sigh of disappointment, Tristan gathered Sam's chainmail and doublet. Unable to find the cape, he crept closer to Sam and kicked his legs.

"Wake up, sunshine!" Tristan shouted.

Sam groaned and rolled over once. Tristan shoved the chainmail hauberk and the sleeveless black doublet onto Sam. It hit the man with a loud clink. Sam sat up slowly, wincing in pain as he fixed his gaze on Tristan and fingered his armor. His hair stuck out in tufts and dark circles ringed the bottom of his eyes.

_Another hangover_, Tristan thought. He searched around for Sam's cape, sword and shield. The tent was a mess which amazed Tristan for they didn't have many things in the first place. Yet stuff was strewn everywhere and he wondered how Sam ever found anything.

"What is your problem?" Sam grumbled. "Waking me up so damned early."

Tristan walked over to the entrance of the tent and pulled back the flap, letting the sun stream into Sam's face and causing him to shield his eyes with his hand.

"It is full morning and we will be late if you don't get your ass up and ready in the next minute." Tristan let the flap close.

"Late for what?" Sam asked.

"The duke's hunt."

"Which duke? Every second person in this blighted country calls himself a duke, or a count, or a fucking emperor." Sam dragged himself up slowly. He shook the grogginess from his head and began to pull on his armor.

"The commandant wants us there." Tristan spotted the crimson cape in a corner and picked it up. He threw it at Sam. "So hurry it up already, _Oliver_."

Sam finished clasping his cape to his hauberk. He slogged over to a basin and splashed some water into his face before running it through his hair to make it look neat. When he was done he turned to Tristan with arms held out.

"There. Am I passable enough now?"

Tristan grinned and tugged at his own identical cape strings. "As handsome as your older brother." Sam came closer and Tristan tapped him lightly on the cheek. "At least from afar."

"Fuck off," Sam said, swatting away Tristan and disappearing outside the tent.

Tristan chuckled, though his heart was not in it completely. Sam was grumpy. It wasn't just the long nights, the drinking, and the gambling the younger man was obsessed with. That was only a symptom of the real problem. Sam missed home; he missed Ferelden. And it was Tristan's fault.

He followed Sam out into the mercenary camp. When they had first reached Orlais, they wandered the divided country aimlessly for a time until they stumbled upon the _Chevaliers Cramoisi_ – the Crimson Knights. The mercenary group offered them a way to survive, a way to blend in. They posed as brothers, changing their names. Sam became Oliver and Tristan became Bernard. It wasn't an easy life, but after fleeing Ferelden, they didn't expect anything to be easy.

A few of the other men saluted Tristan as he passed. It was a company of men, mostly, with only a few women. The Orlesians did not seem to believe in warrior women. There were few who tried out this life, and Tristan noticed that there were even fewer women chevaliers.

For the longest time, they had been looked down upon by the others as Ferelden dogs. Slowly but surely they had proven themselves, and though Tristan and Sam could barely understand or speak a word of Orlesian, they had been accepted. Tristan had realized that if you were a good fighter, where you came from, what you did in the past, none of it mattered. The commandant only demanded your loyalty, which was a hard thing to gain in the world of the mercenary. Swords for hire were generally frowned upon by the population, notorious as they were for fighting on one side one day and fighting for the other the next day. They couldn't be trusted. But the Crimson Knights were a different breed. In all Tristan's time with them, only one person had ever switched allegiance. It was the commandant that kept them together.

Commandant Duplessis came into view then. The grizzled warrior met his eye for a brief second, motioning toward a pair of horses standing ready to the back of the hunting party, their own familiar mounts. Tristan pulled Sam by the arm to the horses.

"Pull yourself together," he whispered.

"Yeah, yeah…" Sam climbed onto his horse. "Orlesians and their sodding hunts. Why do they need us?"

Tristan climbed onto the other horse. From atop his mount he spotted the duke ahead, wearing a ridiculously plumed helmet of multicolor. A pair of chevaliers joined the duke as he shared words with the commandant.

"The duke values his privacy and his safety. So the commandant brought us along because we can provide both."

"Why doesn't he take his blasted legion of rainbow chevaliers along with him?"

The hunting party moved out. Tristan set his horse to a canter, holding up the rear with Sam. A late coming chevalier trotted by them, sending a condescending look toward them both. He leaned in closely for one second.

"_Lamalouis_, you are no true knights." The man spit onto Tristan and then trotted forward. "Ferelden dogs."

"That son of a bitch," Sam said in disbelief. A _lamalouis_ was a twisted, insulting way of saying _lame __à__louer_– _blade for rent_, another not very nice word for a mercenary.

Tristan wiped the spit off of his chainmail covered arm. A feeling of disgust overcame him as he shook his gloves of the bodily fluid. Despite that, he checked his rising temper and sent Sam a warning glare. "Let it go."

"Fucking Orlesians."

"Shut up now," Tristan warned. "This is a hunt. The commandant will have our heads if the duke fails to catch anything."

Sam sighed but heeded Tristan's warning nonetheless. The commandant probably wouldn't have their heads, but he was not shy about punishing his men for the paltriest of reasons. And Tristan had no doubt if the duke asked it of him that the commandant would oblige almost anything. With that in mind, the hunting party headed into the hilly woods just north of Halamshiral at a snail's pace.

_This is going to be a long day_.

…

By midday the mabari hounds were champing at the bit, eager to catch anything. They sniffed around shrubs, pawed at the ground, and raced ahead of the party, stopping to look back every now and again. They weren't finding anything. Either they were lousily trained or something else was to blame. The woods seemed dead, everything gone into hiding.

_Probably because the duke won't stop talking_, Tristan thought in annoyance.

The heat of the day was causing beads of sweat to run down his neck. He felt like a chicken roasting in a cauldron over fire. It was days like these when Tristan wished the Crimson Knights wore no uniforms. For the moment, he could at least be grateful that the commandant did not require them to wear helmets for this hunt. A small mercy to be sure, but one appreciated nonetheless.

The Orlesian tongue babbled on ahead of them. Tristan could almost feel the impatience seething out of Sam beside him. The horse Sam sat upon, Halteclere he was named, whinnied in irritation. Sam most likely had a splitting headache for he clutched at his head every now and then, as if it would help ease the pain.

The mabari hounds pounced up a slight incline in the trail. They disappeared from view for a few heartbeats. The duke called for a halt as they listened for any sign of the hounds. And then it came, a symphony of barks and yelps followed by a strange screech.

The hunting party galloped forward, toward the hostile sounds. They came into a clearing. The mabaris nipped at an odd looking beast. They had stumbled into its den.

"That is a very large lizard," Sam said.

The beast _was_ large; probably five times the size of a horse. It was scaly, with wings on its front legs and smaller wing-like protrusions running along the center of its back. It was striped with yellow at certain parts of its body, which was probably not a good thing. One thing Tristan had learned while in Orlais was that poisonous creatures tended to have bright coloring in warning of their venomous abilities.

_Not unlike the viperous Orlesian nobles wearing brightly colored clothing_, he chuckled to himself.

The sharp looking teeth of the beastly creature rested on the outside of its mouth and it had scaly, whisker-like things sticking out the side of its head and one large triangular protrusion from the middle of its eyes. The eyes were yellow, much like a dragon's.

"Not a lizard, but a wyvern," Tristan realized.

The duke seemed to notice this fact at the same time as well, for he dismounted from his horse and pulled out his very ornamental looking sword and pointed it at the hissing creature.

"_Elle est une journée chanceuse! __Un _wivre_! Pour moi!_" The duke charged at the wyvern.

"Should we do something?" Sam asked, scratching his head. Halteclere attempted to back away from the roaring wyvern just before him. Tristan caught the anxiousness in the horse's eyes as Sam reined him in. He rubbed his own horse's neck in reassurance. The horses were well trained. They would not run from a fight, but a wyvern was a different thing altogether.

Tristan looked ahead to the commandant. The commandant held his hand to the side of his saddle in a halting gesture and gave a barely discernable shake of the head.

"It appears the duke wants all the glory for himself and his chevaliers," Tristan replied.

"Well, it looks to me like we will be cleaning up this mess in a few minutes. Tell me you know how to take on a wyvern?" Sam had a look of amusement on his face as he watched the duke jumping around in front of the wyvern. The duke's chevaliers had dismounted from their horses and were surrounding the creature, which was proving hard to do as its tail kept swiping at them and knocking them over in their large plate armor. "Witnessing this farce of a hunt – I almost forgive you for the rude awakening."

Tristan choked back a laugh. It wouldn't do to offend the duke by making light of his measly efforts at taking down the wyvern. "The duke and his men seem not to know how to fight the wyvern. I must admit, this is one creature I've yet to take on myself."

The wyvern was quick on its feet, much quicker than any dragon he'd ever faced. Its jaws snapped at the chevaliers and swiped its claws through the air. It also spitted out some sort of liquid towards the chevaliers, causing them to slip and fall and lose hold of their weapons. Sadly, the mabaris were more effective at dodging the wrath of the wyvern than the Orlesians.

"Melisende would relish the chance to fight such a thing," Tristan said. He thought fondly of his old friend and fellow Grey Warden. She always ran into a fight against a new creature with excitement. The only time she ever held back even a little was when they ran into giant spiders or anything that looked like a bug. She hated bugs, spiders especially.

A wistful expression overcame Sam then. "I wish she could be here."

Tristan felt the familiar guilt grip his heart. He didn't have much time to dwell on it though, for the wyvern screeched loudly and moved for the duke. The duke's chevaliers were unable to do anything as the wyvern knocked over and trapped the duke under claws.

The commandant galloped over to Tristan. "Bernard, Oliver, get in there!" he commanded. His voice was gruff and accented, his face lined and scarred. He was a tough man, a man not to anger. "Earn your fucking coin!"

Tristan nodded and then turned to Sam as he slid off his horse. "You get the duke, I'll get the wyvern."

"Watch out for the poison." The commandant also dismounted and unsheathed his sword. "I will, how do you say, _enfonce_ _la chienne_ _par derrière_."

The commandant raced to the back of the wyvern, nearly slipping on the poisonous pools that had formed around the creature. He swung at the creature's tail in an attempt to slow its movement.

Meanwhile, Tristan and Sam rushed to the front of the wyvern, evading its snapping jaws. There was no time to waste. Tristan distracted the wyvern with his sword, waving his arms in an attempt to lead the wyvern off and away from the duke. The wyvern wavered, unsure of where to attack. So Tristan roared and stomped his feet on the ground. The wyvern turned his attention full on to Tristan. A brief flicker of fear passed through Tristan as he looked into the eyes of the beast, but it went away as the wyvern lifted his claw from the duke. Sam pulled the man away quickly before the wyvern changed its mind.

But it was set on Tristan. It barreled toward him, swinging its tail and knocking over the commandant. Tristan braced himself for the onslaught. There was nowhere to run. The clearing ended inches behind him in a wall of rock. He gripped his sword hard and waited.

The wyvern reached him, leaning back on its hind feet to swipe with its claws at Tristan. He ducked and rolled under the creature, slashing the underbelly before scrambling back into the clearing. The wyvern grunted in pain and turned around so quickly Tristan had no time to react as it leaped into the air.

It landed above him, knocking him back on his behind. One foot pinned him to the ground as teeth snapped too close for comfort to his face. He lay trapped where the duke had been moments before.

Tristan squirmed underneath the foot. His cape tore beneath a sharp claw. The weight of the wyvern pressed hard onto his shoulders. The claws grated against his chainmail. The wyvern's face lowered toward his own. Wings erupted from its head and it hissed in Tristan's face. Tristan felt his lungs burn as he breathed in the poisonous breath of the creature. He placed his hand on the wyvern's jaw, fighting it off, holding it back to no avail. It grumbled deep from its belly and Tristan got the dread feeling the thing was ready to spit out poisonous orange goo all over his face.

He brought his other hand up and smashed his sword's pommel on the side of the wyvern's face, narrowly missing the eyes, his initial target. It only served to anger the wyvern more and Tristan nearly had his fingers bitten off.

_Fuck this_, Tristan thought.

He dug deep inside of himself for his magic. Forgotten for so long, the feeling of the power flowing through him, reaching to his palm, to the tips of his fingers, was exhilarating. With a bellow of fury, the flame was released into the wyvern's mouth. In pain, it reared back briefly, freeing Tristan from the clutches of its claws. He brought his sword up and stabbed the wyvern through the neck, twisting and grinding into the flesh until the wyvern twitched and fell dead before him. He turned his face away as poisonous goo came squirting out of the wyvern along with his sword.

Tristan slouched forward, catching his breath. He could smell the poison covering his armor. He would do well not to touch it.

"Nice work," Sam said. He watched the dead wyvern twitch once more and then held his hand out to help Tristan up from the ground.

Tristan waved him away. "Don't bother. I'm covered in poison."

"Oh." Sam backed away cautiously, but a grin spread over his face nonetheless.

"Tell me they didn't see that?" Tristan asked as he arose from the ground. He tried to ignore the smell of the poison. He hoped it wouldn't eat through his armor.

"See what?" Sam winked once.

His magic capabilities remained secret for the time being. Tristan breathed a sigh of relief. He could still feel the mana flowing within him. It had been a long time since he'd called upon his magic. Tristan realized that he missed throwing fire, ice, and lightning at things.

"You've impressed the duke." Sam motioned to the party waiting behind them.

Tristan turned his attention to the duke and his battered chevaliers. The duke was indeed impressed. He clapped his hands and hooted in delight as Tristan walked away from the wyvern and toward his commandant standing at the duke's side. Tristan did not miss the looks of disdain that covered the faces of the chevaliers. The one that had insulted them earlier, however, looked about ready to cry.

"Not so proud now, is he?" Sam whispered before they came to a halt.

"_Étonnant__!_" The duke smiled widely at him. "_Comment vous appelez-vous__?_"

Tristan stared at the duke, unable to comprehend what he was asking. The commandant stepped in, luckily for him.

"_Puis-je vous présenter Bernard et son frère, Oliver. Ils viennent de Ferelden._"

"_Ah, mais __ç__a, c'est vraiment un choc…_" The duke continued on speaking in Orlesian. It all went over Tristan's head. He studied the poison on his body, growing wary of it. The last thing he needed was to be poisoned – again.

When the duke was all talked out, he commanded his chevaliers to collect the wyvern as a trophy of the hunt. They obliged the duke, though they didn't look too happy to act as lackeys. After everything was done, the commandant pulled Tristan aside.

"When we get back, clean yourself of the poison straight away."

Tristan nodded. Sam jumped onto his horse with a sympathetic look.

"You're walking?" he asked.

Tristan fingered the reins tiredly. "I am." It wouldn't do to accidently poison the horse. Durendal had been with him for a few years now, bought with hard earned coin. Tristan had become fond of the chestnut creature. Surprisingly, since he never was one for keeping animals. But the horse was useful in a company of knights. Before he had his own, he had to borrow mounts, not a pleasant experience at all. Tristan thought he might actually cry if anything ever happened to Durendal and poison was not something to take lightly. So, he would walk behind them all.

A very long day it was turning out to be.

...

The light in his tent was fading. His armour lay in a pile at his feet, scrubbed clean of the poison as best he was capable of. His cape would need mending and the chinks in his chainmail would need to be repaired. Tristan would see to it on the morrow. For now, he was done.

He threw the dirty rag into the bucket of now filthy, hazardous water. He caught sight of his palms. Calluses covered them. They were the hands of a warrior, not a mage. For nine years he hid his magic, his very identity. Tristan Amell might as well have been dead.

Closing his eyes, he rolled down the sleeves of his under tunic. He couldn't bear to look at his arms. They were just another reminder of who he used to be, who he still was no matter the mask he wore. The taint was spreading, changing the flesh from his shoulders to his forearms into something unrecognizable. It wouldn't be long before it reached elsewhere. He could feel it coming in his bones like he could feel the turning of the weather. It was not something he could run away from.

Tristan lay back on his cot. Sleep was no escape from reality. The whispers, the humming song of the darkspawn left him tossing and turning all night. Peaceful rest could not be had anymore. And if by chance he managed to block that out, his thoughts turned elsewhere. To home. To Brenna.

His hand reached for the now worn pouch around his neck. He rarely took it off and kept it tucked away under his tunic. It had become a sort of good luck talisman. He took comfort in the feeling of it resting near his heart. He shoved it back under his tunic.

Many times he had picked up a scrap of parchment in the thought of writing home. And every time he would crumple up the parchment before he ever put ink to it. It would be stupid to write home. Who would he write to anyway? He couldn't write to the Grey Wardens for it might endanger them. He'd done enough of that in the past, unintentional as it was. And his mother – she couldn't read. Tucked away in the Brecilian Forest, he doubted he could get anyone to bring a message all the way to her for the amount of coin he possessed. No, it was better to let them think what they would, even if it meant they thought him a monster or dead. He'd done that before in the past. It's not like they wouldn't expect that of him. Only now, he'd gotten Sam to do the same. He hated himself for that and he was beginning to think Sam did too.

A breeze reached its warm hands into the tent. "Bernard?"

Tristan didn't want to respond to the call. The kittenish lilt of the inquiry, the feminine voice could only mean one specific person had entered his tent. He kept his eyes closed. He was tired. He could feel an ache building in his muscles, in his back from the wyvern fight. He wasn't in the mood for one of her visits.

"Bernard?" she asked again. He felt the cot sink in beside him, her hip pressing against his side.

"Magalie," he said with a sigh. He opened his eyes to see one of the few female Crimson Knights watching him with clear mischief. She donned no armour, only an under tunic. Her blonde hair fell in waves to her shoulders. She flipped it back with a smile.

"You are awake," she said. Magalie placed a hand on his chest.

"What do you want?" Tristan groaned. He knew he didn't have to ask what she wanted. It was obvious by the way she caressed his stomach, as if he were a cat to be won over.

"We had fun last time, _non_?"

"I…" Tristan sucked in his breath as Magalie reached under his shirt. He did not want her exploring there at the moment. If she found the taint upon him, then that just might be the kiss of death for him and Sam. He pushed her hand away.

Magalie pouted, but retained the look of mischief. "Why so shy Bernard?"

"Maybe I just don't like you."

"You lie." Magalie tossed her hair back again and leaned in closer to his face. "I can see the lust in your eyes."

"Lust is not the same as like." It came out gruff. His mind told him this was a bad idea, but his body was reacting in the complete opposite way, even feeling as tired as it was.

Magalie chuckled. "Of course it is. And it is good enough for me." She brushed her mouth against the curve where neck meets shoulder. At the same time, she unlaced his hose as quickly and deftly as a whore. "No kiss on the lips. I remember."

The first time he'd lain with a woman after Brenna, he felt guilty and so refused to kiss the woman on the lips. It had become a habit after that; a sign of respect for his lost love. A self inflicted punishment for his role in her death. But he was a man and he needed another sort of release every now and then.

Tristan shot up without warning and flipped Magalie onto her back. He hovered on top of her and stared her down for a moment. She hooked her arms around his neck in impatience and attempted to bring him closer. He slid his hand up her leg, pushing her tunic up to her navel. "All right Magalie, you asked for it."

* * *

Translations:

_Elle est une journée chanceuse! __Un _wivre_! Pour moi! = It is a lucky day! A wyvern! For me!_

_Enfonce_ _la chienne_ _par derrière_. = stab the bitch from behind.

_Étonnant!_ _Comment vous appelez-vous?_ = Amazing! What are you called?

_Puis-je vous présenter Bernard et son frère, Oliver. Ils viennent de Ferelden._ = May I present to you Bernard and his brother Oliver. They come from Ferelden.

_Ah, mais __ç__a, c'est vraiment un choc…_ = ah, but this is really surprising…


	7. Chapter Six: Nostalgia and the Dangers

Chapter Six  
Nostalgia and the Dangers of Melancholy

It promised to be a lovely day. The sun was already shining brightly and a faint breeze blew through the mercenary camp, rustling the tents and flapping the standards. Tristan was already up and about. It had become a habit to wake early, ever since the Blight really. The sense of urgency of those days taught him that there was never time to be wasted. Only one time since then had he languished in idleness.

_Brenna_. _Thirteen years since you've been gone_.

An image of her flashed in his mind. Raven colored hair, green eyes, shimmering pale skin, long beautiful legs. Her laugh and her ability to get him to see things he couldn't were what he missed the most. Yet, he didn't think of her as much as he used to. The loss still pained him. He still wore the guilt of her death like a second skin. But it wasn't nearly as consuming as it had been. The busier he was, the less he thought of her – even if busy meant lying with another woman. He felt a brief pang of regret for doing just so with Magalie, more than once, and then pushed it away as he reached the armorer's workshop.

"Bernard, what can I do for you this morning?" the armorer asked. He sat up from a bench and wiped the sweat off his brow with a rag. Antelme was one of the few Crimson Knights who spoke the language of trade, which was otherwise known as the language of Ferelden. Tristan often found himself chatting with the big man when Sam was otherwise occupied, which seemed to be the case more often than not lately.

"I've a few chinks on my chainmail which need repairing." Tristan deposited the chainmail onto Antelme's front table.

"From the fight with the wyvern?" Antelme came around and slapped Tristan on the back hard enough that Tristan was launched forward onto the edge of the table.

"Maker's breath, yes," Tristan replied, catching his breath as the armorer laughed.

"Everyone's talking about it. About you, _brother_."

Tristan turned to see Sam with drink in hand. Disheveled and unsteady, Tristan thought Sam probably had yet to find his bed, especially since it was still early morning. Sam never was an early riser.

"I didn't do it all on my own," Tristan said in annoyance. He was wary of praise, had never gotten used to people talking about his exploits, from his life before and especially not from his life now. Too much talk about him was like walking on a cliff's edge. One false step and everything would tumble down.

Sam rolled his eyes and took a sip from his drink. "Right."

"I can have it repaired in no time." Antelme said from behind. Tristan turned around to face him. Antelme held up the chainmail and pointed to a part with a long scratch. "Are you sure you don't want to leave that there, as a _souvenir_ of your victory against the beast?"

"No, repair it." Tristan shook his head but grinned nonetheless. The armorer nodded and then went into his workshop. Tristan shifted his attention back to Sam, who studied him carefully behind his drink, a sly look on his face. "What are you up to?"

"_Oh Bernard, c'est chaud!_" Sam ran a hand through his hair as he shouted in a feminine voice. Tristan grew slightly embarrassed as he realized the younger man was impersonating Magalie."_Oooh, don't stop! __Merde! Merde! C'est chaud!_"

"Wow." Tristan cleared his throat, wondering if anyone else had heard that. It was exactly what Magalie had yelled out the night before. He rubbed his chin, realizing that if Sam had heard it, then others certainly had. "I really don't know what to say. I think you missed your calling as a court jester."

"Ah shut up. You know you love it." Sam flicked a hand at Tristan before taking a gulp of his drink.

Tristan frowned, putting on a serious air now. It was time this stopped. He nodded toward the drink in Sam's hand. "I see you haven't missed a beat."

Sam took another swig. "What's it to you?" A bit of drink ran down his chin, onto his filthy tunic. The man was a mess, in need of a good scrubbing, in need of a good night's sleep.

"You've been drowning in ale lately."

"So?" Sam's expression darkened before he looked away from Tristan.

Tristan closed the distance between them and knocked the drink out of Sam's hand. It splattered onto the ground. Tristan was too late; it was already empty.

"You're better than this," he calmly stated.

Sam turned on him, his nostrils flaring in anger. "I don't tell you what to do, so don't tell me what to do." With those words, Sam spat on the ground and mumbled one last word before stalking off. "Bastard."

"Oliver! Brother!" Tristan shouted. He had to get through to him. He had to make him see that he was only hurting himself by doing all these things. "Get back here."

But Sam just ignored him and continued on his way.

Tristan shook his head. He could already feel another headache coming. Sam had developed a series of nasty habits and a nasty mouth since he was a boy. Not all of them were gained in Orlais, but the drinking had only gotten worse since they got there. The life of adventure he'd always wanted was not turning out to be what he expected. And Sam was at the age when he should have a wife and children by then. He should be by the king's side, living comfortably in Denerim. Not for the first time did Tristan wish Sam had never aided him in escaping Fort Drakon.

_A stolen life. That is all I have given him._

"_Commandant Duplessis veut te voir_." A fellow mercenary appeared at his side, breaking him out of his thoughts. The mercenary gestured with his head to the commandant's tent and pointed at Tristan. Apparently, the commandant wanted to speak with him. With a sigh, Tristan nodded his thanks to the mercenary and walked in the opposite direction Sam had gone.

…

The commandant's tent was larger than the others, but it didn't mean it was furnished lavishly. It was rather austere, Tristan noticed. It was the first time he'd been in it. The company moved around a lot, mostly to middle of nowhere places, which was part of what attracted Tristan to them in the first place. He assumed the commandant didn't want to have to haul around a lot of junk when they did move around.

As his eyes adjusted to the lesser light, he spotted an identical cot to his own in the back. Besides that there was a large table and a couple of chairs. The commandant sat behind the table, reading a correspondence. He looked up once and then gestured for Tristan to take a seat in front of the table.

Tristan did as he was asked and then waited. For a long moment. He wondered what the commandant wanted with him. He was close to losing patience when the commandant put his correspondence down and turned his attention full on to Tristan.

"Orlais." The commandant sighed before continuing. "Things have never been the same here since Empress Celene was challenged by Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons. Civil war, killing your own brothers, I've always despised such a thing. But I am not stupid. It has brought me many opportunities over the years. Tell me, Ferelden had its own civil war. Would you say it brought opportunity?"

Tristan straightened and leaned forward with chin on hand. Where was the commandant going with this? What did he expect him to answer? He had to be careful. "It brought _opportunity_… for bandits and thugs. For usurpers to vie for the throne. For the Blight to spread unchecked because foolish men were blind to the real dangers."

"You were not a fan of Loghain mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane?"

Tristan ran a hand through his hair. He eyed the commandant suspiciously, but could not discern any threat for the moment. "No," he replied, perhaps a little too icily.

The commandant either didn't notice the venomous reply, or he chose to ignore it. "That man was always a thorn in the side of Orlais. Many of us rejoiced when we heard that he had been killed by the so called Hero of Ferelden."

Tristan flinched. It had been a while since he heard his moniker used. He didn't know what the commandant wanted to hear, so he decided it was better to say nothing at all.

After a moment, the commandant leaned back in his chair. "I took a chance when I took you and your brother on. You did not even know how to ride a horse, did not even speak my language. The Ferelden tongue is the language of trade, I thought you might be useful and I never refuse a good fighting man, and that was what I saw in you."

Tristan felt the commandant's keen gaze watching him like a hawk. It took all his willpower not to squirm in the chair. Just what did the man want? Had he figured something out about him? About his real identity?

"I have heard stories of you," the commandant continued, "of how you fought in the Ferelden army during the Blight."

_Sam..._"My brother likes to talk."

"And you do not. He is very proud of you."

Tristan would have to have a chat with Sam, if the man would let him get anywhere near him. And he doubted that Sam was proud of him. "He is too young to remember."

"Even so, fighting darkspawn has hardened you into a formidable warrior." The commandant leaned forward, a thoughtful look on his face. "If only all my men could face the darkness then I would have a formidable army and perhaps challenge for the throne myself." He chuckled at the thought, his brow arched challengingly in Tristan's direction.

"Fighting the spawn is no laughing matter," Tristan warned. "Most die of the taint before they even get to wield a blade against the monsters. It is an agonizing death. Others touched by the taint turn into ghouls, nothing more than mad pawns of the darkspawn until they die."

"But not you."

The commandant scrutinized him closely again. So much so that Tristan had to stop himself from squirming. He was letting out far too much information about himself. It wasn't wise. But he didn't like that the commandant had reduced the darkspawn threat to a simple joke. Perhaps he'd gotten a little too defensive. There was no taking anything back though.

"They say the archdemon was a dragon," the commandant said.

_Careful now, Tristan._"I did not see it myself."

"Yet your brother said you fought on the very rooftop of Fort Drakon against it."

He vowed to settle Sam as soon as this meeting was over. The man talked too much for comfort. "He likes to spin tales."

"Either way one of you is lying to me." The commandant slammed his fist onto the table. "I do not tolerate liars within my company."

"But you tolerate thieves, rapists, and murderers." Tristan fought hard to keep his calm. It wouldn't do to let his anger take control. He might say something he would infinitely regret.

"In this business, there exist no hands which are not stained with blood." The commandant paused and gave Tristan another long look. "These thieves, rapists, and murderers you speak of, they at least have the gall to own up to their crimes."

"What are you getting at?"

"Why did you leave Ferelden? Which category do you fall into; thief, murderer, or rapist? Perhaps something infinitely viler."

Tristan fought to keep his growing anger in check. "Like you said, the Orlesian civil war brought opportunity – something that was lacking back home."

The commandant remained silent, pensive. Why now? Why was he asking Tristan these questions now? Had something come to light? Had he been discovered?

"Did you ask me here to talk of my past?" Tristan ventured.

"No. On the contrary I wish to talk of your future." The commandant reached for the correspondence he read earlier and waved it in the air. "I have just received a plea from Jader's merchant association. There have been frequent raids on their caravans in the past year. Used to be sporadic but now they have picked up steam."

So the questions had just been a long lead up to another mission. He would have sighed in relief had he been sure it would not arouse suspicion. "Who? And why?"

"The locals call them _Les Rebelles Masque_– the Masked Rebels. They have not given their purpose. From all I hear, I suspect that they are Dalish."

"And what does Jader wish us to do?" Tristan asked.

"Stop them."

"I see." _Masked Rebels? Are we to do the job of the state now? And why would he suspect it was Dalish behind caravan attacks?_Tristan had to admit that the rebels being Dalish made a bit of sense as Jader was close to the Dales, if not a part of it. He wasn't quite sure of the exact geography. Though if these rebels were masked, they could be anyone.

"Is there a problem?" The commandant turned his hawk-eyed gaze onto Tristan once more. "Your tattoo though it is somewhat faded, it resembles those I have seen decorating the faces of those savage elves."

"It is nothing," Tristan lied. They were something, but that was a lifetime ago. He was not that person anymore. Truthfully he had never thought of himself as Dalish, even if he had the blood running through him.

The commandant lifted his brow suspiciously. "Will I have reason to doubt your loyalty should I bring you to Jader as my second in command?"

"Have you had reason to so far?"

The commandant stared at him a moment longer before bursting into laughter. "For nine years you have fought through the ranks. One would think you'd be happier to gain position."

Tristan had felt so defensive that he hadn't realized the commandant had just promoted him to deputy. He shrugged and grinned rather sheepishly. "I never was an ambitious man." _Not to mention I already reached your rank by the time I was twenty-one_. "I will accept this position only if I can bring my brother with me."

"Ah but of course he may come. I would not wish to break up such a happy little family. But... keep him in line. Oliver has been more trouble than he's worth. If it weren't for his connection to you I would have severed ties with the pup long ago."

"As you wish commandant." He definitely needed to have a talk with his _brother _after this.

"I never believed the tales your brother told until yesterday. I knew you were good with a sword, but _merde_, what you did to that wyvern when those supposed chevaliers could not. _Merveilleux_. Amazing."

Tristan had nothing to say to that. When the commandant realized this, he stood up and gestured Tristan away.

"We leave tomorrow. I am taking twenty of us and leaving the rest here under the command of my other deputy. You may go make preparations. We will discuss strategy when we get to Jader."

Tristan arose and politely nodded to Commandant Duplessis. "Thank you, ser."

As he left the commandant's tent, he wasn't at all sure that this promotion was a good thing.

...

Sam had been asleep when he first searched him out. Now that the day was waning he figured Sam would be up and about. Tristan knew just where to look. The mess tent was a busy place at the end of the day. Mercenaries lined up for a meal and then stayed on long after to drink, to talk, and to gamble.

Sure enough, he spotted Sam's mop of blonde hair among a group of gambling Crimson Knights. It didn't matter that Sam could not understand a word of Orlesian – the gambling tables all spoke one language, the language of coin.

This night they were playing cards. Sometimes it was dice. Other times they played a queer bowl game shown to them by an elf named Stanislaw, one of a very few elves in the company. Tristan stopped behind Sam and cleared his throat. Sam either didn't hear or chose to ignore him.

"I need to talk," Tristan said.

Sam continued to play cards. His opponent across from him looked up at Tristan in annoyance.

"Are you deaf?" Tristan asked. "I said I need to talk."

Sam put his cards down and looked up at him over his shoulders. "Are you blind? I'm playing a game of cards right now. I'll get to you when I'm done." Sam returned his attention to the game and laughed, shaking his head to downplay the interruption to the other players.

"This is important," Tristan tried one last time. If Sam didn't listen this time, then he would have to do something Sam would not like.

"Go away," Sam snorted.

Tristan sucked in his breath. He crouched to Sam's ear level and whispered, "You asked for it. I humbly apologize for what I'm about to do to you." Tristan grabbed a hold of Sam's hair and pulled.

"Hey!" Sam dropped his cards and tried to swat away Tristan. But Tristan didn't let go and as a result Sam pulled himself up and Tristan dragged him away from the game. Laughter echoed behind them. "Fuck sakes, why did you do that? I'm long past being a child now."

Tristan folded his arms over his chest, unimpressed by the protests being hurled his way. "Then start acting like the man you are."

"Look," Sam rubbed his scalp and smoothed his hair down. "I'm sorry about earlier, but you didn't have to do that."

"I need to talk. It's important."

"So you said. Fine." Sam waved his hands in frustration. "Talk. I'm listening now."

"The commandant asked a lot of questions of me today. Questions that were only spurred on by your loose tongue." Sam was about to protest, but Tristan quickly halted him with a hand. "I think he is suspicious of us. Though, I don't know what game he is playing. He promoted me to deputy. We are to go to Jader and flush out rebels. You are to behave yourself."

Tristan realized he didn't have the heart to repeat what the commandant had said about Sam, about how he would not have put up with him if it weren't for Tristan. Sam was already filled with a deep melancholy and this just might make things worse. He realized also, that he did not want to bring up the vices Sam was engaging in just yet.

"Suspicious?" Sam echoed with a thoughtful smirk. "And yet he promoted you, after nine bloody years. It took him long enough. Perhaps he does this to all he elevates."

"Even so," Tristan warned, "rein in your tongue or we will be discovered."

Sam frowned. "I never say anything specific."

"But you say enough that the commandant questioned me about the archdemon, about Loghain even."

"Fine. I'll shut up, but I can't promise that if I've drunk a pint or two of ale." Sam had an air of nonchalance, of amusement even. Tristan wished he would take this seriously, as he was.

"Behave. I'm serious."

Sam grinned mischievously in return. "I'm as good as Andraste was."

"Right. Joke about it all you want..."

"Ah, don't worry about me. You're a big shot again." Sam gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder before turning away and returning to the card game. He might have hidden behind jests, but Tristan did not miss the sorrow in Sam's eyes as he departed. He would have to intervene with the man. He just didn't know what to say anymore.

Perhaps Jader would be good for them both. It was almost like going home, close as it was to Ferelden. They would have to be careful in that city for that reason alone.

The thought of hunting down Dalish rebels, however, gave him a bad feeling he couldn't quite bury.

* * *

Translations:

c'est chaud = it's hot/that's hot


	8. Chapter Seven: No One Knows

Chapter Seven  
No One Knows

Tristan really felt spoiled by Durendal. Travelling was not as grueling as it used to be. The mere thought of how much he used to walk everywhere made him tired. The journey to Jader took half the time it would have had he been walking and not riding. He wished that they would have had horses during the Blight. They could have gotten things done quicker and avoided a lot of bloodshed. At least, that is what he liked to think might have happened.

Tristan rode at the head of the small column of Crimson Knights, at Commandant Duplessis' side. Most of his fellow mercenaries had congratulated him on his elevated position as deputy. Others seethed with resentment that a Fereldan who could not even speak the language of Orlais had risen so high. Tristan gathered he would have to watch his back more than usual and he would have to wear his mask even tighter. Now that he was in a higher position, the risk of discovery was greater. Not for the first time did he wish he had not been promoted. But what could he have done? Refused? There's no saying how the commandant would have reacted to that.

"There she is!" the commandant's gruff shout shook him out of his reverie.

They had left the imperial highway hours ago and turned onto a plainer dirt path. Changing direction at a fork, they found themselves in the middle of an orchard, Jader's white walls and keep tower coming plainly into view. Tristan couldn't help but notice the stark difference between the north and the south of this particular area – the abundance of the coastlands and the barrenness of the Dales. He couldn't quite figure out the type of fruit growing on the trees on either side of the path, but Durendal reached out to mouth a couple of leaves as the commandant halted their progress.

"I will go on ahead to speak with the guards. They might frighten at such a sight coming up to the gates if not." Commandant Duplessis nodded once at Tristan before gesturing to a mercenary named Berenger to accompany him down the path to the gates.

"Strange place for an orchard," Sam said as he steered Halteclere to Tristan's side. A small round fruit in the early stages of growth hung from a branch. Sam reached for it.

"I would not eat that." Magalie brought her horse forward. "The fruit is poison. An orchard looks welcoming, _oui_. _Mais_, it is meant to slow down the enemy from reaching the gates, force them onto this narrow path we wait on, and slaughter them in an ambush. If that does not work, then the fruit will have the enemy turned into a spastic, useless army, if they do not die from the poison within the hour."

Sam turned the fruit around in his hand, bringing it up to his nose to smell before shifting his attention from it to Magalie. "Really?"

Magalie nodded with a grin. "Oh sweet, sweet Oliver from Ferelden, you must take my word for it. Toss it to the ground."

Sam took one long final look at the fruit and then tossed it to the ground. Halteclere whinnied once and then lowered his head to the ground, plucking the fruit into his mouth using his tongue. Sam frantically attempted to get the stallion to spit out the fruit.

"Halteclere spit it out. You're going to die!" he cried out as he pulled on the reins in an effort to get the horse to rise up. The horse snorted in annoyance but did not spit out the fruit. Tristan could hear the fruit being crunched to oblivion by the stallion's teeth.

Tristan glanced at Magalie who began to laugh along with some of the other Crimson Knights. Sam stopped pulling on the reins, caught sight of everyone's mirth and his cheeks flushed.

"You lied!" Sam said as he turned on Magalie.

"Only about the poisonous fruit." Magalie replied through subsiding laughter. "You have to admit, _non_, that poisoning the fruit would be a good way to defend against enemies."

Sam shook his head, showed his back to the rest of the company, and pulled up beside Tristan again. He grumbled underneath his breath.

"Lighten up," Tristan said.

"Easy for you to say. You weren't the butt of a joke."

"It was all in good fun." Tristan leaned over and patted Sam on the shoulder. "Don't take everything so personally."

Sam said nothing, only stared off in the direction of Jader. Tristan followed his gaze. The commandant and Berenger had reached the large front gate. The walls of Jader were high and strange looking statues, silent stone sentinels, stood atop the ramparts every few feet, watching over the path below. The keep's tower rose high in the middle of the city. The sea could be seen in the distance behind Jader. All in all, though perhaps more opalescent, it was not much different from Amaranthine, which sent a shock of sudden homesickness to Tristan. He wondered if Sam felt the same way.

The group quieted as the commandant began his trot back, Berenger at his side. Birdsong filled the air, punctuated with the occasional snort or whinny from a horse. The pounding of hooves replaced everything as Commandant Duplessis eventually pulled up in front of the group.

He barked something in Orlesian before turning to Tristan. "Keep your weapons sheathed and lowered, and stay out of trouble." He pointedly stared at Sam with those last words. Sam recoiled slightly but kept quiet, much to Tristan's relief.

The gates were lifted as the group of mercenaries neared and in no time they were passing under the wall, through a short tunnel, before arriving into Jader herself. The townspeople hovering by the gates looked up at the sound of quite a large contingent of armed men entering their city. Their suspicious eyes followed the mercenaries through the winding streets. Tristan tried hard not to reach for his sword hilt at some of the looks they received. His back felt almost as if it were crawling with bugs he felt so uncomfortable. He was so close to Ferelden. What if there were refugees here? What if one of them recognized him?

He tried to turn his thoughts from such bleak possibilities. In all his time in Orlais, he hadn't ever gotten as paranoid as he was now. But he had never been so close to home, had mostly travelled in the smaller towns, and he had never had such a high and visible rank before now. If he was discovered, he was truthfully more worried about what would happen to Sam. Aiding in treason would not be taken lightly. They might even have bounties on their heads, which they'd so far managed to avoid by keeping to the obscurity of the smaller Orlesian towns. Jader was a different story.

Commandant Duplessis pulled up in front of an inn.

"The seneschal has sent a messenger to inform us that we are not to stay at the keep but at the inn." The commandant spat on the ground in anger. "The bastard thinks we will spread panic in the streets if we went to the keep."

Tristan glanced around him. Panic – no, more like curiousity – already looked to be setting in as people watched their progress fearfully, whispering things and scurrying away in all directions. "Maybe it's not panic… but curiousity he does not want to arouse?"

"Perhaps you are right. In any case, we must stay here. Get the men to see to their horses." The commandant dismounted from his horse. "We meet with the count and the merchants association on the morrow."

Tristan slid off Durendal to do what the commandant had asked. Everything around him seemed heightened – the heat, the stench of cooking, of dung, the noise of the crowd and of his fellow mercenaries. Tomorrow suddenly felt like a long time away.

…

Evening came and found Tristan tired to the bone. Making sure the horses were stabled and his fellow mercenaries stayed out of trouble had been quite a chore, especially since half the time he had to gesture with his hands when he wanted something done. He probably should have picked up the language sooner, but he never thought he'd be in Orlais this long.

The inn was stuffy and so he made his way out to the street, satisfied that things were settled for the moment. He breathed in the fresh air, only it wasn't as fresh as he thought it would be. Cities, they never were as pure as the wilderness. But there was something else there, a light smoke that burned into his lungs for a moment. He turned to the left to see Magalie and Berenger, sharing a pipe on a bench.

"Bernard, come share with us," Magalie said. She spotted him before he could escape in the other direction.

With a short sigh, he resigned himself to spending time with the two Crimson Knights and walked over to join them, though he did not take a seat and he made sure to stand with his back against the wind. He did not want to breathe in that smoke again.

"I was just telling Magalie how it would be a good thing if we could recruit some mages to our cause." Berenger chuckled. "If we could find any alive."

Tristan ran a hand through his hair, wondering what Berenger's point was. He placed his hands behind his back, unconsciously hiding what they couldn't know anyway.

"And I was ignoring him." Magalie took a puff on the pipe. "Nobody wants to hear about that war Berenger. It's enough to say the world is going to shit. Shit crazy for the last couple of years. _Y a d'la merde dans l'air_. It only means more opportunity for people like us."

_The mages breaking from the Circle of Magi, the Templars breaking from the authority of the chantry. An Exalted March. Magalie is right, something funny is in the air lately. _It was old news, but still worrisome. Sometimes Tristan wished that he would have joined in the fight, but as always, news reached his ears slowly and too late._ The world certainly has gone to shit. _He sent a grateful look to Magalie for changing the subject, though he doubted she noticed.

"And just what do you mean when you say _people like us_?" Berenger asked with an insulted air, pounding his chest for emphasis.

"I mean soulless hands of demons that do anything for coin."

"Is that really what you think?" Tristan asked.

Magalie shrugged, took a drag from her pipe and breathed out a puff of smoke.

"What did she say?" Berenger asked with a look of confusion sent to Tristan. "I did not understand all those big Ferelden words. Except for coin. Berenger knows that word in seven different languages. The sound it makes as they clink together, Maker, that is the sweetest."

Magalie rolled her eyes. She passed the pipe to Berenger. "Don't worry about it, Berenger."

"Then why the dark look? You should be happy to be home." Berenger put the pipe to his lips and inhaled whatever was in there.

"Home?" Tristan didn't really know much about Magalie, he had to admit.

"Jader has not been home for years. It, how do you say, rubs me the wrong way."

"Oh?" Tristan arched a curious brow in Magalie's direction. He was going to ask more when he was interrupted by the opening of the inn door. Sam appeared outside, searching around the darkening street until his eyes rested upon the little group. He strode over to them, stopping by Tristan.

"I need a favour, _brother_," Sam said in lowered voice.

_Maker help me_. Tristan had an idea what that favour was. It always started this way. But he queried Sam anyway. "What is it?"

"Could you send some coin my way?" Sam held his hand out, palm up, awaiting a windfall of coin, though he probably knew what Tristan's answer would be. It was, after all, always the same routine lately.

"I can't, I'm sorry." Tristan shook his head sadly. "You owe me a couple of sovereigns already. How am I supposed to feed Durendal if I keep lending you money?"

"How am I to feed Halteclere?" Sam responded back.

"Not my problem." And it wasn't supposed to be Tristan's problem. Sam was a grown man and had been for a while now, but Tristan found himself paying for both of their horse's upkeep. He knew he shouldn't be angry with Sam, he was the one who put Sam in this situation after all, yet it was growing tiresome now. Tristan just didn't know what to do about it anymore.

Sam sighed and then moved in front of Magalie, crouching low to meet her eye to eye. "Sweet Mags…" he took her hand into his own.

"Oliver." Magalie touched Sam lightly on the cheek and shook her head. "You still owe me."

Sam stood up with a grumble. He took one look at Berenger before deciding better of asking him the same. But the big man stared lasciviously at the younger.

"Oliver," Berenger called out, forcing Sam to look back. "For a roll in the hay, I'll give you the coin you need."

Tristan was afraid that Sam would do something stupid for he glared at Berenger with such menace. In the end, however, Sam grumbled once again, muttering a curse under his breath, before he turned abruptly around and stalked off back inside the inn.

Berenger, untroubled by the rejection, began to chat with Magalie in Orlesian, leaving Tristan to his thoughts. He wondered what to do about Sam. Melisende would know what to do. She was good at these sorts of things. Him, he was completely clueless. Sam's situation was tearing him up inside. Yet he didn't know what to do. He never spent so much time with one person before, so much so, that Sam really did feel like a little brother. Family was something he never got used to the idea of. He had blood relatives back in Ferelden, but he'd grown up an orphan in the Circle Tower. Not exactly the kind of place that teaches love. _Survival of the fittest is all it teaches…_

He began to feel another headache coming on. He rubbed his temple and tried to think of something else. It probably wasn't a good idea to keep procrastinating about Sam, yet it was all he could do for now. When next he looked up, he realized the chatting had stopped and Berenger had left. Magalie remained seated, watching him closely with her pale blue eyes.

"_Ça__ va__?_" she asked.

"I'm fine." Tristan waved away her concern, taking a seat next to her. Tristan remembered how intrigued he was about Magalie before Sam came around. He studied her closely in return, watching as a smile replaced the concern on her face.

He never really _talked_ to her. She was a bit younger than him, younger than Sam by a year or two even, but it didn't ever show. Tristan remembered her arrival in the company, two years after his and Sam's. She had been a lanky young woman then, a far cry from the womanly figure she carried now. Yet, she passed every test the commandant threw at her. She looked to have been trained in the handling of a sword. In the end, however, the commandant gave her a crossbow when he accepted her into the Crimson Knights. She never complained about that, though he often saw her practicing with a sword early in the morning.

It was only in the past year that she had begun seeking his bed. He knew she found her way around the mercenary camp, so to speak, but it didn't really bother him. He was not looking for anything beyond the release she gave him. He figured she would eventually move on from him, as she had the others.

"So you think I'm a soulless hand of demons?"

"You?" Magalie tossed back her head with a slight chuckle. "_Non, pas de tout_."

"And why not?" He smiled back, curious as to her reasoning and laughter.

"It wouldn't do to call my superior that." The familiar Magalie had returned. He was a bit disappointed. He found the little bits of information she tossed to him about herself very intriguing.

Tristan took on a serious air. "Nothing has to change between us."

Her left brow lifted slightly, her eyes danced with amusement. "Nothing? I rather like that thought."

"You can still speak plainly with me."

"Speaking was never part of our routine. Why change that now?"

"Maybe it will be a good thing." Perhaps some part of him desired female companionship, not in the same way he had with Brenna, but like the friendship he had with Melisende before he messed all that up. Female perspectives were often interesting and useful to behold. In a company of mostly men, Magalie was a breath of fresh air.

Magalie stared thoughtfully at the street for a moment. City workers were lighting up the lamps that lined the streets on a few corners. She turned back to him when the flames had been lit and the workers disappeared into the growing darkness. "Perhaps it is just I'd rather not. But… who in their right mind dreams of becoming such as I am when they are a child?"

"You are not a soulless hand of a demon…"

"_Ben oui_. I kill for coin."

"Many do. Not just mercenaries. Assassins do it all the time. Soldiers kill to put food on their families' tables. Chevaliers even."

"The difference between a chevalier and a mercenary is honor. I kill whatever without thought. At least a chevalier thinks before the act. He does things because his honor demands it of him. Because his loyalty to country demands it of him. Me, I care for nothing but my own survival and a bag of coins."

She was right, of course. Whatever honor Tristan had ever possessed had departed from him the moment he became a mercenary. He couldn't find it in his heart, however, to believe that that made them soulless hands of demons – abominations. "That doesn't make you an abomination."

Magalie watched him from beneath her lashes before looking away completely. He could not decipher her thoughts.

"Then what is it about Jader? It seems like a nice enough town. Wouldn't you be happy to return home?"

"Would _you_ be happy to return home?"

Tristan stared off down the street, the flicker of the lamp light catching his eyes, wondering what happened here with Magalie to put her in such a dark mood. She was not usually this way. And he certainly didn't want to think about his home – wherever in Ferelden that was. He never really had figured that one out before being exiled.

"This is not about me."

Magalie did not immediately reply, instead focused herself on emptying the pipe of leftover contents and placed it in a pouch at her belt. Their eyes met after that.

"We all leave things behind when we become part of the Crimson Knights. I am content to leave them where they are until I must face them. _Mais, __ç__a suffit pour l'instant_. I must get my sleep, as should you." She stood up abruptly, intent on returning to the stuffy inn.

"Wait." Tristan stopped her with a light grip on her wrist. He stood up in front of her. "I have need of your tongue."

She smiled, her brow lifting in a flirtatious manner. "_Bien s__û__r_. Whatever you command. If you wish not to sleep alone tonight…"

Tristan grinned. That was not at all what he had in mind, though he couldn't say the thought had not crossed his mind this evening.

_When did it change? When did it become me wanting that?_

"You've mistaken my intent," Tristan said. "I need your tongue for a much simpler task than we are used to. I want you to translate at the meeting tomorrow."

A playful sigh of disappointment erupted from Magalie's mouth. "As you command. _Mais_, the Ferelden tongue is common in Jader. The merchants, they probably speak it as well."

_That would explain her knowledge of the King's tongue_. "Even so, I want to know everything that is said. I highly doubt they will speak in my language the whole time just to accommodate me. I am only a deputy after all."

"Then I will happily whisper everything into your ear." Magalie smiled once again, inclined her head and stepped forward toward the inn. Tristan realized that he had not let go of her wrist that whole time. Letting go, they walked into the inn together. Most of their company slept on the floor, Sam included. Tristan felt awash in relief. The way Sam left, he worried the lad might have started trouble. But everything seemed in good order.

"Well, nobody is sleeping alone tonight…" Magalie said as she stepped over the leg of a slumbering mercenary.

Tristan chuckled, feeling somewhat disappointed that would be the case this night.

…

"That man there with the grey hair and paunch of a woman nine months gone with child – that is Seneschal Engeler. He manages everything to do with the keep, the hiring of staff and all that. In the count's name. The count – Count Nevelon – he is the man with the _cheveux roux_, red hair. He is an old fashioned nobleman. Look at what he wears. That hasn't been in fashion for forty years."

Tristan stifled a chuckle as he took in the sight of Count Nevelon greeting Commandant Duplessis. The man wore an embroidered velvet jacket in a gaudy blue color, with high leather boots more suited for riding than holding an important meeting with mercenaries. Though, perhaps, like most people, the count thought little of the so called _lamalouis_.

_Yet he thinks highly enough of mercenaries to ask us for help._

The count's eyes were lined with black kohl, giving him an overall strange appearance, which was part of what made Tristan want to laugh. The other part was Magalie's words. They sat quietly in the back of a room in the keep, observing the meeting only for the time being. The commandant did not object to Magalie's presence when Tristan brought it up, in fact, he took to it immediately, because in his words, "another pair of ears and eyes will ensure the bastards don't try to cheat us out of coin or try to change the terms of the deal."

"So, the angry man must be the merchant's association representative?"

Magalie nodded. "His name is Drouin. He is quite wealthy."

Drouin was a small, fat man, whom Tristan was sure wore a wig, for it flopped to the side as he went on a tirade. "What is he saying?"

Magalie listened a moment before repeating what Drouin was saying. "He is angry that the rebels are disrupting trade with Halamshiral, their most important, and their closest trading partner, besides Orzammar. He says that now they are killing merchants. It must end."

"Who was killed?"

"I don't know. Just some elven servant I think. He just keeps going on and on about how it must stop. Now… he proposes that the Crimson Knights hide in a grand caravan… a grand caravan full of expensive goods and important supplies that they will spread news about around town for he is certain that there is a spy among them that takes news like this to the rebels… and the grand caravan will be used to lure out the rebels and finish them off once and for all."

"He wants us to be bait? What's wrong with the chevaliers, the rebels too tough for them to handle?"

"He did not mention them."

There was a lull in the conversation while the commandant considered his options. Tristan did not particularly like the idea but it was the commandant's word that had the final say. The commandant began throwing out numbers at the count, bargaining for the best deal. Tristan didn't bother to get Magalie to translate for the commandant seemed willing to accept the job for a good sum of coin – equal to fifty sovereigns. It would be a good pay day for them all if all went well.

But something didn't sit right with Tristan. There had to be an easier way to draw out the rebels. He arose from his seat in the corner and wandered to the table where the superiors were discussing strategy. He studied the crudely drawn map. Jader was marked with an "x", below the Waking Sea. The Frostback Mountains rested to the south and east of the town. The Circle Tower and Lake Calenhad rested not far to the east. He was closer to home than he ever thought. Ignoring that, he ran his finger along the map, to the imperial highway south of Jader.

"How long does it take to get from the mountains to the highway?" he asked.

"One or two hours, mounted. Longer on foot." The Seneschal loomed behind him, squinting at the map.

"The mountains we stay away from," Drouin said with a flick of his hand. "Barbarians and the like stalk those heights. There is nothing worth scaling those heights for."

"The rebels have no mounts. They attack the old imperial highway and then disappear. The Dales are by all accounts a barren landscape. The coast, the cities and every tiny hamlet in between cannot hide a pack of rebels." He wondered if they understood him, not his language for they had answered in the King's tongue, but his rationale. He trailed his index finger along the map and rested it upon the last logical place the rebels would hide. "Don't you think the mountains are where the rebels might actually be?"

"We will draw them out and find out anyway, no need to go traipsing about the mountainside looking for holes. They are vermin and must be eliminated – on our terms." Drouin was having none of it, though Tristan thought the commandant might be considering what he had said.

Tristan was about to protest Drouin's plan. With a few good scouts, they could find the rebels' hideout without the need to use anyone as bait. But the door swung open, banging onto the wall behind with a loud crack and in strode a pair of chevaliers.

"Ser Thierry," the count said as everyone turned their heads to the intrusion. The lead chevalier, Ser Thierry, was an arrogantly handsome man with a drooping mustache typical of his kind. His dark hair was cut short above the ears, giving him the appearance of having had a haircut with a bowl on the top of his head for guidance. The chevalier on his heels seemed less inclined to have intruded on the count and wavered silently at the back of Ser Thierry.

"_Qu'est-ce que vous faire pour rendre la justesse contre les Rebelles Masque?_" Ser Thierry demanded as he came to a sudden, screeching halt in front of Count Nevelon.

Tristan drifted back to Magalie, wishing to know what the arrogant chevalier was demanding of his superior. The count stood up straighter, offended it seemed by his chevalier's behaviour.

"He wants to know what the count is doing about the rebels," Magalie whispered with a snort.

The count replied simply by giving a regal incline of his head toward the commandant. Ser Thierry sneered condescendingly towards the mercenary leader, looking as if he had just eaten something disgusting.

"_Donnez-moi plus de chevaliers et je peu finir les menaces,_" Ser Thierry continued to speak in Orlesian.

"He wants the count to give him more chevaliers. He insists he can get the job done. He insists that the count does not need _lamalouis_ to finish the job," Magalie explained as Ser Thierry finished his angry rant.

The count would hear none of it. He drew himself up straight and puffed up his chest, and replied in the tongue of Ferelden; "The Crimson Knights shall be called upon for this task and that is final."

Ser Thierry looked beyond the commandant's shoulders, noticing Tristan and Magalie probably for the first time, and flinching for a second before turning his attention back to the count. Tristan felt his gut twist into a knot, thinking perhaps it was because the chevalier recognized him, for there was a flicker of recognition in that look. However, Magalie muttered under her breath at his side.

"What did you say?"

"Ser Thierry has not changed. This particular breed of snake never sheds his skin. He cannot be trusted."

Tristan was about to question her further when Ser Thierry pounded his fist onto the table. "I shall accompany the _Knights_ on their expedition. _Les Rebelles Masque _will regret ever setting an ambush upon a caravan which I escorted." His voice was heavily accented, but Tristan understood him clearly and found that he did not like this idea one bit for reasons still unknown to him. It was a feeling and that was all for the moment. Ser Thierry nodded to the chevalier at his heels. "Ser Valdebrun, get the details for me, this room smells too much like dog." To everyone's delight, Ser Thierry then turned around and departed from the room, leaving Ser Valdebrun to discuss further strategy in his stead.

Tristan leaned in close to Magalie. "You spoke as if you know him. And if I am not mistaken, he knows you."

"I do. He does. _Trou de cul_."

"So he's an asshole?"

Magalie smiled, though it seemed half-hearted to Tristan. "Ah, you are learning the language!"

"The bad words are always the easiest and the most useful. But I digress. How do you know this man?"

"It is a long story we do not have time for…"

"As you wish then." He was about to return to the strategy table when Magalie held him back.

"It is enough for you to know that he cannot be trusted." She held his eyes for a long moment before letting him go.

He could barely concentrate as he returned to the commandant's side to discuss strategy. They went over the details one more time in a mixture of languages.

"The guards at the gates shall be told to hold anyone who leaves alone for a few hours only to return," The count stated. "We shall punish the traitor accordingly."

Tristan didn't think that watching the gates would be useful, for the traitor could be anyone, but he wasn't about to speak up again. He just wanted the meeting to be over with already. The longer it went on, the more he dreaded another appearance of that arrogant chevalier slithering in once more to stare disdainfully at them all. That look reminded him of someone he'd fancy not dragging out of his memory. And Tristan would rather not risk stirring up that fury and anger for fear of what it might lead to: an undoing of years of being someone else.

…

"Is there any place besides the front gates a single person could enter and leave the city unseen?" The thought had been gnawing at Tristan after the meeting. He sought out Magalie once more, finding her at the inn, sitting against the wall outside.

"Yes, there is," she answered with a curious tilt of her head.

"Show me." He held his hand out to her; accepting it, he pulled her up. "I promise I will leave you alone after this."

She brought him through the city. They passed the marketplace, thick with people looking for goods in short supply because of the constant caravan attacks. He could feel the resentment towards the rebels radiating from the poor peasants unable to afford usually cheap goods. They continued down back alleys, through narrow streets until they reached a dingy area, poor and dilapidated in the southeast corner of the city. There were many elves around this area, though no _Vhenadahl_ tree that he could see.

"An alienage?" he asked.

"Not really. The elves are not confined to one part of the city here like in Ferelden. There are many of them, at least in this part of Orlais."

He lowered his voice and leaned in closer to Magalie, scanning the thick crowd around him. "If the rebels are indeed Dalish, would these elves aid them?"

"That is beyond my knowledge," she replied.

They stopped at a man-sized grate in the wall. Below it was a small reservoir of murky water.

"I would not drink that, but go deep enough and you can make it under the wall and out. The stream continues underground probably all the way to the sea. This is the only part that is visible."

Tristan crouched down and examined the reservoir. "You've tried this before?"

"Many times."

Tristan found it hard to believe that the reservoir was deep enough that a person could dive and swim under the wall. For a moment he wondered if Magalie was pulling his leg, like she had done to Sam the day before. He decided to trust her, though he would not be testing out the passage any time soon. He could barely swim himself. "How many people know of this?"

Magalie shrugged. "The disobedient sons and daughters who wish to share a secret tryst outside on the beach? Many, perhaps only a few."

"Maybe our betrayer doesn't use the front gates at all." Tristan straightened up, eyeing the people around closely. "We need to post someone here, quietly. Perhaps Stanislaw would blend the best."

"I think Berenger would be better. Stanislaw may be an elf, but he is rather… _belliqueux_ when it comes to his own kind."

"I know not what that word means."

"He… gets into a lot of fights with his own kind."

"You're right." Tristan sighed. He thought putting an elf here to watch would not arouse much suspicion, but Stanislaw did have a belligerent nature toward his own race, for whatever reasons. "I have noticed that about Stanislaw. Well, we need to post someone here, without attracting too much attention. So, your suggestion of Berenger will do for the moment."

Tristan wasn't sure if this was necessary, but it certainly didn't hurt to watch who came and went from beneath this grate in the wall. There was no doubt someone was giving information about caravans to the rebels. The betrayer had to leave in order for their plan to work and so he hoped posting a lookout here would not deter the person. The hook had been cast out hours ago in the marketplace. All they had to do now was be the bait in a few days time and hope the rebels would bite.

* * *

Translations:

_oui_ = yes

_mais _= but

_Y a d'la merde dans l'air _= literally, it means "there is shit in the air", but it is an expression, meaning "there is something funny going on".

_Ça__ va__?_ = are you okay?

_Non, pas de tout. _= no, not at all.

_Ben oui _= a slang way of saying "of course", sort of like "hell yeah", though not literal and more of a sarcastic tone than "hell yeah".

_Mais, __ç__a suffit pour l'instant. _= But, that is enough for the moment.

_Bien s__û__r_ = "of course"


	9. Chapter Eight: Old Habits Die Hard

Chapter Eight  
Old Habits Die Hard

Pine needles brushed against her face, so lightly it tickled. She sighed lazily, pushing it away. The needles came back against her face as soon as her arm returned to rest over her stomach. Catriel turned onto her side. Her eyes flew open as her bow slid from her arm and into the air, suddenly remembering where she was. She hooked her legs around the tree limb and dangled upside down, spitting out pine needles. Arrows fell from her quiver.

"_Merde!_" she cursed.

A snapping noise overhead caused her to look up. The tree limb just above the one she hung upside down from bent precariously low under the weight of something. She could feel it touching against her toes. Catriel examined the limb just below her. If she could jump into it, would it hold?

She did not have much time to ponder this question, for a squawking of birds drew her attention back above her. The limb bounced up and down, hitting her toes. She couldn't quite see what the ruckus was about, but figured it was a hawk attack at the loud _keeer_ shriek that overpowered the squawks.

_I don't want to be in the middle of this fight_, she thought, _though it would be interesting to see, just not upside down._

She took a deep breath and then let her legs go slack, falling into the limbs below. She reached for a hold on the nearest branch, which slipped once from her grasp before she caught hold of it with her other hand. It bent under her weight but held. She turned her attention to the bird fight above. She could see the hawk now, a baby bird clutched in its sharp talons. It stretched its wings out wide and flew away. Without the weight of the hawk, the branch snapped back up with a crack. The smaller black birds took flight after the hawk, squawking angrily after a fight they had no hope of winning. The chick was as good as dead, a meal for the stronger.

Catriel pulled herself up onto the branch, regaining her balance before sliding back to rest her head against the trunk. She struggled to catch her breath after the fall, to still her rapidly beating heart.

_A life snatched away before my eyes…_

It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last, she knew that now. Somehow, death weighed more heavily upon her heart now than it ever did before. She shook away the dark feeling threatening to overtake her. Steadying her breathing and her heart, Catriel turned her attention to the path below, searching for her bow. She shouldn't have been asleep. She was supposed to be watching the path for any danger.

But it was so boring, this duty her mother had placed upon her. Nothing interesting ever happened until now. She spotted an errant arrow among a branch and reached for it, replacing it in her quiver with a frown. She hoped no one had seen her clumsy acrobatics in the tree, her loss of her only weapon and the projectiles that went with it.

Intent on forgetting her mistake, Catriel looked to the sky. It looked to be near the middle of the day. Just how long had she been asleep? Her sentry duty was probably over for the day. How was she to explain this to her mother?

_She certainly won't believe that I stayed up here longer than I should have for fun_.

"Greetings, little sister."

Catriel quickly jerked her attention below, to the sound of the greeting. One of the people stared up at her, smiling widely. His face was friendly, pleasant, and familiar.

"Guion!" Catriel shouted down from her perch among the pine tree. His visits were always something to look forward to, though she had a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. Not all news he carried was good. She didn't normally pay attention to the words he brought, but this time…

"Does this belong to you?" he asked as he held out her bow in front of him.

_Gods, he saw everything_. She wanted nothing more than to climb higher up in the tree, embarrassed as she was, but she wanted his news. So Catriel began to climb down the pine. Not far from the bottom, she jumped down, landing steadily in front of the elf from Jader.

"It is mine." She took the bow from him, avoiding his gaze, lest her face redden.

"Sentry duty?" Guion asked. He looked her up and down suspiciously, though with a hint of amusement. "Does this mean you are all grown up?"

The fury that rose from deep inside of her made her able to look him in the eye. "I am not a child anymore, Guion. I don't know why it remains so hard to be seen."

Guion tapped his chin in thought. "For one, you have yet to receive the _vallaslin_ so valued among our people."

"Well, you have none, yet you are a man are you not?" Catriel folded her arms in anger.

Guion laughed, his eyes crinkling in joy. "I am born of the city, you know this young Catriel. We have different customs." His laughter subsided and his expression turned serious. "Hopefully one day, we will live again as we used to."

Catriel smiled and poked at the air with her imaginary sword. "I shall treasure that day when it comes and gut one thousand _shems_ with my sword in the process!"

Guion laughed and ruffled her hair, much to her chagrin. She'd spent a long time combing it that morning. Sleep had not been as easy to come in the cavern as it had been in the tree and it had been the only thing she could do to distract her troubled thoughts. Using the back of her hand, she smoothed her hair down with a pout that Guion chose to ignore.

"Are you yet too old to accept the usual treat?" He fingered the small pouch at his belt. Catriel's eyes followed the movement in excited anticipation. If it was what he usually brought whenever he showed up at the rebel camp, it would indeed brighten her day. Her mouth was watering already.

"If you mean the sweet honey cake, then the gods only know I shall never be too old to refuse that." Catriel spat into the palms of her hands, rubbing them together furiously in an effort to rid them of some of the sticky pine sap accumulated from her adventure in the tree. When she was satisfied that they were clean enough, she held out her hands to Guion with a pleading pout.

With a chuckle, Guion reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a bundle wrapped in cloth. He handed it to her with a smile. She had yet to break her fast and the mere sight of the cake as she unwrapped it sent her stomach into a rumble of hunger. Without any thought for modesty, she took a bite out of the cake, letting it melt in her mouth. She had to admit, this was one of the things she could not fault the _shems_ for.

"Any news?" she asked between bites.

"Not for your ears I'm afraid." Guion began to walk the path once more. Catriel followed. He glanced back once over his shoulder. "Shouldn't you remain at your post?"

Catriel shrugged. She didn't really want to, didn't need to be there anymore, really. If there was news, she wanted to hear it firsthand. She knew Guion would not give in to her inquiries, and so she didn't bother prodding him further for news and in particular the one snippet she most wanted to know about – the ambush, the dead man, and any consequences of it.

"There are many other eyes among the trees," she said, motioning to the tops of the evergreens. "Mine won't be missed."

Guion smirked. "Especially since yours were closed in slumber…"

"Do not say that aloud! There are many ears out here as well." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "My mother cannot know of my… nap."

Guion laughed once more. "Then she shall not hear it from Guion."

"_Ma serannas_."

"Then come, escort me to the woman." Guion waved her forward and Catriel only too happily obliged, quickly finishing off the honey cakes and wiping her hands of the delicious crumbs.

…

The rebels gathered around Guion, eager for news of any kind. Catriel's mother gave her a disapproving look when she plopped down in front of the city elf. Usually, Catriel never bothered listening to such discussions. This time however, she wouldn't miss it for anything. She pretended not to notice her mother's look, settling herself in comfortably.

Her mother seemed to resign herself to Catriel's presence and turned to Guion in greeting. "Guion, last you came I was not around."

Guion inclined his head apologetically. "I must apologize for my lack of good judgment on that occasion. I was not aware that you had left instruction not to raid while you were away. Had I known that, I would have acquiesced to your wishes. I would not have passed on the information that I did."

Her mother turned her steely gaze onto Fenarel, who had wandered into the cavern in the middle of Guion's apology. Catriel bit her lip nervously. Fenarel had not spoken to her since the last gathering. She had tried to speak with him, but always he turned away.

_And I don't blame him. Because of my big mouth he got blamed for everything, he was embarrassed in front of everyone._ Still, she hoped to repair things between them. She missed her friend.

"The damage has already been done," her mother said without removing her eyes from Fenarel. After a moment in which Fenarel did not flinch she shifted back to Guion. "Your apology is appreciated and thoughtful. But know that it was not your fault Guion and that I do not blame you for what happened."

"Your words ease my heart somewhat," Guion said. He touched his heart as if to emphasize his point, but Catriel thought his look remained dark. "You say the damage has already been done, and I fear that is the truth of things."

"What has happened?" Thorn asked. He sat by her mother's side, as was always the case.

"Nothing, as such things go." Guion tapped his knee in thought before continuing. "Yet, there are whispers in the streets. A group of mercenaries was seen entering the city one day ago. Their presence in Jader is guessed upon with much speculation. There is much anger towards _The Masked Rebels_. Prices for necessary goods have jumped in the past weeks. Many people can no longer afford to feed their families. A life has been lost now, too. And so they think the mercenaries are there to aid them."

Catriel recoiled slightly at the mention of a lost life. She turned her eyes briefly to the ground, unable to look at anyone for fear her shame would be reflected in their eyes.

"Aid in what?" her mother asked, though Catriel thought that her mother probably already knew the answer, as she did herself.

"In stopping the rebels," Guion replied.

Catriel clenched her fists, feeling her nails dig into her palms. This, if it was all true, and how could it not be, was all her fault.

"The merchants are taking advantage of their own people," Fenarel scoffed from behind.

"If you wish to speak, Fenarel, come forward," her mother said. "Your opinion will be most interesting."

Fenarel flared in slight anger at the mocking tone of her mother's words before moving forward, making himself visible to all. "There is no reason for the merchants to raise their prices. We do not steal enough for that to be a reasonable reaction. It is nothing but greed. The _shems_ want nothing more than to fatten their pouches with gold and will do anything to get that, even if it means hurting their own people."

"It hurts us too," Guion pointed out.

"Your own fault," Fenarel retorted.

Guion stood up and folded his arms in growing anger. "One does not choose where one is born."

"But you can choose where to live, where to place your allegiance." Fenarel closed the distance between himself and Guion.

"You think I visit here because I have nothing better to do? I am helping you in your cause, even if perhaps it hurts my own people."

"That is enough," her mother stated. "Fenarel back down. Guion is our friend, as are all _elvhen_ in the city."

Fenarel stared at Guion for a moment longer than he should have before reluctantly backing down. Catriel wished he would not be so mean to Guion, who sat back down with visible frustration.

"These mercenaries, do you believe the whispers?" her mother asked Guion.

Guion shrugged. "I do not know. It could be a pure coincidence that they are in the city at this time."

"Coincidence?" Thorn asked in confusion. Catriel might have giggled at the look on his face if she were not so riveted to what Guion had to say.

"I have received word that a large caravan is headed to Halamshiral in the coming days. It is filled with many goods – the luxurious kind. Perhaps the merchants association has hired them as escort."

Fenarel snorted. "There are always filthy mercenaries around. You are connecting two things which probably have nothing to do with each other. I say they are passing through. If, by the gods, they are there to come after us, I say let them come."

Guion turned to Fenarel with a shake of his head. "You have no idea what you are up against if that is the truth."

"How many are they?" her mother asked.

"I would say around two dozen."

"The odds are in our favour already." Fenarel moved forward again and turned to the rebels gathered there. "We outnumber them. I say we attack this caravan and enrich ourselves at the expense of the _shems_."

"And if, Fenarel, the mercenaries are indeed escorting this caravan, would you think it worth endangering ourselves for luxuries we do not need?" Her mother stood up to face Fenarel.

"If they are, we outnumber them. If they aren't, then it will be easy. If they are in town to come after us, then why not strike first?"

"And if they are, just passing through as you said earlier, would you give them a reason to come after us? Because that is what will happen if we raid this caravan."

"Isn't this what we want? Isn't this what we have been waiting for? It is time for us to take back the Dales. What better way to start than by crushing a mercenary force? By taking Jader itself!" Fenarel was fired up, pumping his fists in the air. Some of the rebels cheered him on while others remained wary. "It is time to change the course of history!"

Catriel didn't know what to think. She had waited for a day like this for her whole life. But the look on her mother's face, a look of disappointment, gave her pause. Her mother had preached patience for so long, believing that an opportunity would come in which they would not be able to resist. Was it now? Catriel could not believe it so when only a few days ago her mother said they were not strong enough. That fact could not change in just a few short days. How could Fenarel think otherwise?

Her mother stood with hands on waist, waiting for quiet to return before speaking. She shared an uneasy look with Guion and with Thorn before fastening her eyes onto Catriel. Catriel didn't know what the look meant but she felt her pulse quicken in sudden nervousness.

"Since Fenarel and I disagree, we will take a vote," her mother's voice echoed through the cavern as voices silenced. "All in favour of attacking the caravan…"

Nearly all of the rebels cheered with Fenarel, her mother had not even had the chance to finish. With a shake of her head, she sat down beside Thorn, resignation in the slump of her shoulders.

"Tomorrow, we raid!" Fenaral shouted through the cheers.

Catriel remained silent. She wanted to be a part of this, but she couldn't help thinking of the life she had taken days ago. If there were mercenaries hired to hunt them down, she couldn't help but feel responsible somehow for all of this. Things might not have gotten so out of control if she had just done as she was told. Perhaps the best thing to do was to make up for it all. She just had to figure out how.

…

After saying goodbye to Guion, who was returning to Jader, Catriel could think of only one place she wanted to be; her favorite rock. The faint breeze was welcome refreshment to the damp air of the cavern. She wished to sort her thoughts in solitude and didn't expect that she would meet anyone in her favorite place. So when she spotted a familiar back seated in her spot, she halted in her tracks.

"Fenarel?"

He glanced over his shoulder, twisting around just enough that his mouth was visible, set in an agonizingly beautiful grin. Catriel found herself unable to move forward, unable to comprehend the feelings inside of her. She was supposed to be angry with him, for ignoring her, for turning everyone against her mother's wishes, she _should _be, but one look at him and she found that she could not do that.

"That is my name," Fenarel replied with an amused arch of his brow.

"So you are talking to me again?"

Fenarel patted the rock beside him. "It certainly looks that way, doesn't it? Come sit with me."

Catriel was unsure of what to think of this. She did miss her friend and she wanted nothing more than for things to go back to the way they were before, but there was something amiss. Dismissing her silly worries though, she moved forward, hunkering down beside Fenarel. He had given her a chance to talk to him, after all, why should she ruin it by questioning it?

"I'm sorry," she blurted out.

Fenarel chuckled. "You did only what your blood demanded of you. I should not have expected you to lie to your mother for me."

"But… I would have done it for you," Catriel said. "My mother, though, she has a way of getting to me. It just came out of my mouth. I couldn't stop it."

Fenarel met her eye to eye. "You have done me a favour, in the end. Your mother has finally given in to what we want. What we need. This is just the beginning. It is thanks to you. I would not have had the courage to stand up to her about this if she had not given me a mouthful in front of everyone at the last gathering."

Catriel turned away, embarrassed, and sighed. "I don't know if this is such a good idea though…"

"Don't worry, Cat." Fenarel placed a hand on her shoulder. "It had to come to this someday."

"But my mother…"

"She has promised to listen to our wishes. You will see, this will be a good thing."

Perhaps Fenarel was right. And it was only another raid, after all. Just on a much larger scale if Guion's information was correct. Yet, if the whispers could be believed and there were mercenaries involved, then there surely would be bloodshed. It might lead to the next step in their rebellion. It was what they were all there for in the end.

Catriel lifted her chin and smiled mischievously at Fenarel. "Then this is something I would not miss."

"No." Fenarel removed his hand from her shoulder and shook his head. "You are not to follow this time. Your mother has made that clear."

Catriel's smile disappeared. "So you will listen to her on this but not anything else?"

"You may have proven yourself to me and the others, but in your mother's eyes, you are still her only child. Do not disobey her this time."

"And when will this childish treatment end? When, Fenarel? Will I have to endure this until I am an old woman?" Catriel stood up angrily. "I do not have to listen to anyone. I will listen to my heart, and it tells me I cannot miss this."

Fenarel stood up and gazed down at her worriedly. "I would not have anything happen to you again. We were lucky last time. Do not follow this time."

Catriel swirled around and roared in frustration. She was tired of being coddled. She was sick of being treated like a child. And she was fed up of being reminded of what she had done. No one had ever told her how hard it would be to be normal after… a first kill. She narrowed her eyes in Fenarel's direction. If she was ever to forget taking the life of that nameless elf, then she knew what she must do: she had to kill again, but this time it would be a thousand _shems_.

She fled onto the path that led to where her sword lay hidden.

_The gods will welcome such a blood sacrifice from me. They will forgive me for killing one of our own with such a deed._

…

Catriel paused to wipe the sweat from her brow. She dried her hand on her tunic and then gripped the chevalier's sword once more. She struck at the air, imagining a chevalier in front of her.

_Ser Thierry_, she thought. _I will wipe that look from his face with one swing of the sword_.

She shuddered again at the memory. She had felt violated. She had felt the fear ripple through her body. But now, now she was not afraid. He or any other _shem'len_ could stare at her in insolence all they wanted, her blade would do the talking.

"Raaaaaaah!" she shouted as she leapt into the air and swung the sword downwards, planting it firmly into the ground. The action sent a vibration through her arms. She let go of the blade and backed away. She felt powerful with a sword, even if her arm muscles strained to hold it up. In time, she knew it would be easier to bear.

"You have much to learn, daughter."

Catriel jerked around to view her mother watching her with folded arms. How was it that she always was able to sneak up on her?

"I am ready," Catriel said proudly with defiance glittering in her eyes.

Her mother neared her slowly, stopping by the blade planted in the ground and brushing it lightly with her fingertips. "Fenarel is young and foolish. We do not agree on many things."

Catriel frowned as she caught her breath. "He came to you." It was not a question, but a statement. She knew the answer already.

"Do not think you are joining in this raid." Her mother nodded lightly. "Fenarel is right in this. It is too dangerous for you."

"It is just another raid on a caravan!" Catriel lifted her hands in frustration. "I have already been to one. Give me one good reason why I should not join in this time, and do not say it is because I am a child."

Her mother closed her eyes and lifted her chin to the sky. "I see disaster on the horizon."

Catriel snorted. "You would say anything to keep me away from this raid." She reached for her sword hilt and found nothing but air instead. Her mother, eyes still shut, had pulled it from the ground in an instant so quick it left her wondering how.

She opened her eyes. "You are not going. That is final."

Catriel bit her lip in an effort to contain her fury. She reached for her sword again but her mother pulled back with it, shaking her head. "That is my sword."

"You must master yourself before you can master a weapon."

"Fine," Catriel backed down. "If I promise to obey you, will you give me back my sword? I don't see how I can master anything without it."

Her mother studied her closely for a long moment. Catriel did not flinch, did not let her mother see that she was lying. She had already made a promise to the gods. That could not be undone for an earthly promise to her mother.

"You will get it back after the raid." With those words her mother turned and left, her chevalier's sword in hand. It seemed her mother did not believe her words after all. But that did not matter to Catriel, for even if she did not have a sword, she had a bow and quiver of arrows and an aim to put Andruil the goddess of the hunt herself to shame.

Not that she would ever brag about that aloud. It wouldn't do to further anger the gods.

…

It was early morning and Catriel was not at her usual sentry post. Instead, she had watched half of the rebels ready themselves for the raid before they left; her mother, Fenarel, Varia, and even Thorn all gone on an adventure without her. To make matters worse, her mother had set Lethra to watch over her. The old woman was tiresome and watched her like a hawk.

Catriel picked at the log she sat upon, tearing off the bark in thought. Her mind raced with the hope of stealing away from Lethra. Eventually, she knew the old woman would fall asleep. They were outside in the sun. The warmth would tire Lethra out sooner or later and Catriel would be free to follow. At least, she hoped that would work. There were many other eyes watching her, she knew, for not all the rebels had gone. But if Lethra did not cry out in alarm, then she would have an easier time of evading those eyes.

And so she waited, and waited, seething with barely restrained resentment as the old woman talked of times past.

"While the Blight was swallowing up everything in its path, my clan had something far worse to worry about. Did I ever tell you of this time?" Lethra waited upon Catriel's answer patiently.

"No, Lethra, I don't believe you have." Catriel replied with an impatient sigh.

"It must have been your mother I told then. Anyway, like I said, the Blight was overcoming Ferelden, tainting everyone and everything it came into contact with. There was no hope for the land. The Grey Wardens were nowhere to be seen. They'd all been killed at the battle of Ostagar, along with the king. But these things didn't matter to my clan. We had bigger problems to deal with."

"So you said." Catriel twirled her hair around her finger absentmindedly.

"There were werewolves stalking the forest, biting our people, giving them a sickness with no cure. People would go insane before they would die. Others fled into the forest, never to be seen again. Oh, it was a horrible time."

"_Werewolves_?" Catriel snorted in disbelief. "Child's tales. Why are you telling me bedtime stories? Everyone knows werewolves don't exist. Tell me something real if you must tell me anything at all."

Lethra clicked her tongue. "This _is_ real, child. I saw it with my own eyes."

Catriel shoved her hair back and rolled her eyes. "Go on, if you must."

Lethra frowned, but continued nonetheless. "We did not know why the werewolves were so intent on attacking us. We didn't know what to do, how to stop them. Most of all, we didn't know that it was our own Keeper who had cursed the werewolves in the first place. You see, they had been human once."

"The _shems_ probably deserved it." Catriel cut in. She was more absorbed in the story than she thought she would be.

"Some would say they did, for they raped and murdered the Keeper's children. But these were the descendants, cursed for something their forefathers did. Is it right to punish the son for the sins of the father?"

"The Keeper did what he thought was right."

"Yet it wasn't right. And he hid it from the clan for generations. He knew how to stop the sickness, how to stop the werewolves from attacking the clan, but he lied to us all."

"How did the truth come out?" Catriel leaned forward on her knees, curious as to how the story ended. "It did come out, right?"

Lethra nodded her head. "It was not until the Hero of Ferelden came to the clan with his companions seeking out the aid of the Dalish that the truth came out. Of course, he was not yet called the Hero back then, he was only a Grey Warden. It turned out they had not all been killed at Ostagar, but there were only three left and they were gathering support around the country. For you see, we had signed a treaty long ago, promising to come to the aid of the Grey Wardens should another Blight arise. But we could not help, for the sickness was killing us all slowly. So the Hero promised to help in return for our aid later on against the darkspawn."

"Was the Hero _elvhen_?" Catriel asked.

Lethra shook her head. "He was a human, gifted with the use of magic."

"I do not care about _shem_ heroes Lethra," Catriel stated with disappointment. She leaned back on the log, impatient once more. She didn't care for the rest of the story if the Hero was a _shem_.

"This one you should, for he saved the world from a darkness much worse than the werewolf plague."

"You already said the werewolf plague was worse than the Blight," Catriel pointed out with a sigh. "You are contradicting yourself."

Lethra ignored Catriel and continued with the story. "But first, he went into the forest with his companions, tracked down the werewolves, and discovered the Keeper's treachery. Not all was lost, though, for the Keeper saw reason and ended the curse, ending himself in the process. If it weren't for the Hero, we might all have been wiped out for the stubbornness of one man."

Catriel rolled her eyes. "And where is this hero now? He probably never existed. He is just a figment of your senile mind."

"Tut tut, child," Lethra wagged a finger in Catriel's direction.

"Do not call me child!"

"You have a worse tongue than my son ever had, and he was a nasty child."

Catriel looked away, her eyes lowered to the ground, her cheeks burning. She wasn't usually this disrespectful to Lethra. She regretted the words that had come out of her mouth. "I… I'm sorry. I just don't care for your stories anymore."

"Just indulge an old woman a little longer, without that sharp tongue of yours." Lethra folded her arms and yawned in the sun.

"Fine," Catriel agreed.

_You are only doing this to distract me from what is happening elsewhere, yet it will not work. Once you fall asleep, old woman, I will leave this place. It is only a matter of time…_


	10. Chapter Nine: The Die is Cast

Chapter Nine  
The Die is Cast

_If it moves, kill it._

Those were the commandant's only orders beyond staying quiet until the appointed time. Hunkered down on his stomach in a covered wagon, Tristan felt every little bump or hole they passed over. It was hot and stuffy in the small space and he badly wanted to stretch his legs out fully. At least he had a little eyehole – just a small crack in the wagon, really. It provided him with something to focus on while the nervous anticipation of battle crept into his body.

_Soulless hands of demons._

He couldn't help but think of Magalie's words as he adjusted the sword at his back. In a few moments, if all went _well_, he would be killing without pause, without thought. It bothered him more than it used to, at least since he'd been in Orlais. What if these rebels were just in their cause? What if they were Dalish? He thought of his mother, his lout of a brother… and then quickly pushed their images away. That was not who he was, who he'd never been.

"I've never felt so close to you before this day Oliver." Berenger's taunting whisper brought Tristan back to the present.

"If your hand moves one fucking inch higher, I swear to the Maker I will chop it off." Sam spoke louder than he should have, the anger clear in his voice. "I mean it Orlesian…"

"I seek only to calm your nerves," Berenger chuckled.

"Do I look like I'm nervous?" Sam retorted.

Tristan craned his neck to the left to see what was going on. Sam batted away Berenger's large hands with one hand while his other hovered dangerously over the hilt of a dagger he always kept at his waist.

"I can feel you shaking from way back here," Stanislaw spoke up from the other end of the wagon.

"All of you, _tayeule_!" Tristan warned. Maker, but they were like little children. The commandant had given him command of all those who spoke the Ferelden tongue – which amounted to these three and Magalie, who rode outside the wagon with another Knight, posing as merchant and wife, their chainmail hidden under cloaks.

Sam grumbled incoherently and subsiding chuckles were heard from Berenger before all were quiet once more.

They rode awhile longer in silence, jolting around the wagon at every crack in the road. Tristan wondered if the rebels would take the bait. They certainly knew a caravan was coming, for the evening before the traitor had been caught, returning through the front gates, unable to explain where he'd been and for what purpose. The man was an elf but they did not get a name out of him. Tristan knew the count had the man tortured for information, under pressure from Ser Thierry it was said, but nothing was learned. Either the man was not really a traitor to Jader, or he did not want to betray the rebels. His fate would be sealed on this day – if the Masked Rebels attacked.

Tristan studied the crack in front of him. A beam of sunshine flooded through. It was hard to make out anything they passed, but it helped turn his thoughts from torture. He'd not agreed with the method. He was not in charge, though, what could he do? He remembered a lifetime ago, when Rendon Howe had done sickening things to innocent people while Loghain turned a blind eye. Melisende had been furious, and rightly so. It was inhumane. Perhaps it was justifiable in certain cases… but what was the use of these philosophical conundrums? He had a battle to fight, to lead.

"When we jump out, try not to be blinded by the sun," Tristan warned quietly. They were wearing helmets which covered the bridges of their noses and partially covered their cheeks and necks, but the helmets did not have any visors to block against the strong sun.

"Easier said than done," said Sam.

"It's simple, don't look right at it." The wagons slowed. The horses of the few chevaliers accompanying _the caravan_ came to a stop. "Brace yourselves. Something is about to happen."

Three short taps on the side of the wagon told Tristan his words were truth. It was a warning from Magalie, devised before they left. The last thing he wanted was to be surprised by the rebels, for the tables to be turned on them. They were in the head wagon, the vanguard, and most likely to be pounced upon first.

His breath held and let out in as steady a manner as he could manage. His heart raced as he readied himself to leap out in surprise. Harried footsteps, threatening voices filled the air outside the wagon, drifting in to them as mumbled nonsense. The Masked Rebels had come.

A brief feeling of regret for the elven man overcame Tristan before he pushed it away. The man was a traitor after all, why should he feel sorry for him?

The clinking of swords hitting the ground came next. A part of the ruse was a fake surrender, something which Ser Thierry had vehemently opposed before finally agreeing. Tristan thought he could make out the chevalier's insolent grumbles. Not for the first time did he wish the arrogant bastard was not there. He didn't trust the man, and not only because of Magalie's warning, but because there was just something off about the chevalier.

"Uncover the wagon." It was one of the rebels, a woman. Tristan could not hide his surprise at the language she spoke in, at the accent it commanded.

_They are Dalish…_

"_Je ne comprend pas. S'il vous plait_..." Magalie improvised and Tristan realized that the rebels were going to make her remove the cover on the wagon, thereby putting the rest of their plans to the wind.

A scuffle against the wagon told Tristan that Magalie had probably been shoved against it. The tarp shifted slowly, before all at once it slipped off. The air was a sweet relief to the stuffiness of the wagon, yet there was no time to enjoy it.

"_Pour le Cramoisi!_ For the Crimson!" he shouted loud enough for the rest of the caravan to hear. In an instant the wagons came alive, spilling out Crimson Knights onto the road, leaping onto unsuspecting Masked Rebels. Tristan jumped over the side of the wagon, shaking the cramped feeling of being in a wagon for so long out of his legs, out of his arms before pulling his sword from his back.

Magalie elbowed the rebel behind her, threw off her cloak, and then twisted around to kick the legs out from under the rebel, sending her falling to the ground.

"My crossbow?" Magalie asked.

Tristan smiled and motioned to the wagon. Magalie crawled into it and was momentarily lost to sight, before standing up once more, crossbow in hand.

Tristan had no time to waste. Rebels came at him and his men from every direction, swinging swords and axes, brandishing daggers, and whizzing arrows by his head. The Crimson Knights engaged them back, the small number of chevaliers joining in after retrieving their discarded weapons. The odds looked to be even, numerically speaking anyway. The rebels had been caught off guard, fighting desperately against better armed opponents, and standing their ground, much to their credit.

He blocked a swing from a rebel, masked just as it was said. They all wore masks and hoods of different shades of green and brown. He could not see if they were Dalish, but he knew from the woman's voice that they had to be. Tristan moved away from the wagon, dragging his opponent with him in a dance of swords. The man was skilled, seeming to know every move Tristan was going to make before he made it. Tristan looked through the eyeholes of the mask and saw nothing but determination in his opponent's eyes.

Enthused about having a worthy opponent for once in a long time, Tristan's breath steadied and his heart raced not in anticipation but with lust for battle. As the fight dragged on, he caught a few stolen glances beyond his opponent. A few rebels had fallen. A few Crimson Knights lay injured on the ground. He saw Sam blocking a blow from the woman that had been knocked to the ground by Magalie.

He felt the tip of his opponent's sword pierce through his chainmail and puncture his side. He'd lost his focus. It wouldn't do to pay attention to the rest of the battle. Angry now, his grip on his sword tightened, but his hand shook. It longed to let go a flurry of lightning, a wave of fire. He couldn't do that, however. He had to be Bernard. He couldn't be Tristan Amell.

He swung at his opponent. Their swords met again in a clang that shuddered up through his arms. He stepped back and stabbed. His opponent blocked once more. Yet this time, Tristan pushed. His sword slid up his opponent's, emitting an irritating screech and sending little sparks flying into the air.

"You will have the Dales no longer, _shem'len_!"

His opponent's words startled him. He lost his footing and fell backwards as the man pushed back with a furious roar. The man lunged with his sword, Tristan rolled away as it hit the ground next to him. He got to his knees in time to parry another swing. His hands ached to cast a spell. He ignored the mana flowing through him and shot forward, catching his opponent momentarily off guard. It was enough to slit the man's side. Blood squirted out of the wound as the man examined himself.

"I don't own the Dales and I don't want it." Tristan knocked the man's sword away, picked it up and held it in his other hand. He stared at the man before him, helpless now. He caught the surprise in the man's dark eyes turn to a plea for life.

_Soulless hands of demons_. Tristan studied the swords in his hands. One was covered in blood. Blood of the People. Blood which he shared in his veins. Did he really want to kill this man? Why was this so hard?

_If it moves, kill it_. Those were his orders. He should do as he was told. He would demand nothing else of his followers were he the commandant. But were they the right orders?

"Are you going to kill me or not?" the man asked. He held his bleeding side. His eyes were in shadow now, Tristan couldn't decipher anything of the man's feelings. He looked at his swords once more, and then at the man, before kicking him to the ground.

"I don't want your head, but maybe you'll bleed to death."

Tristan turned away and took a few steps forward. A feeling made him look back. An arrow wobbled at his heels. A minute longer in debate with himself and the arrow probably would have been in his skull. He looked to a lone oak tree not far behind, off the road. He thought he saw movement. For a moment he imagined the tree coming to life, like Velanna had made happen many times. But it was probably only a rebel hidden among the leaves. He moved away from the line of fire. Another arrow hit the ground behind him. There was someone in the tree.

But he had no time to bother seeking the culprit out. And it didn't matter anyway for Ser Thierry seemed to notice this fact as well and galloped away on his horse toward the tree. He hoped in spite that whoever was in there would get away. Ser Thierry, his armour gleaming yet spattered in the blood of his enemies, left a bad taste in Tristan's mouth.

He turned away from the chevalier. The battle raged on around him. He scanned around for those under his command. Berenger fought against two rebels, holding them off easily. Stanislaw darted around the battlefield, stabbing at anything that moved. Magalie had moved from their wagon to another, loading and firing her crossbow as calmly as if it were only target practice and not a battle. He found Sam last, dodging the blows of the same woman he'd seen him fighting moments ago.

Sam looked to be tiring. The woman had backed him against a now broken wagon. Tristan edged closer to the fight. The closer he got, the more visible Sam's struggle was. The woman was quick, striking towards him in a flurry of sword and shield. She moved gracefully, evading anything Sam threw back at her.

_Have you learned nothing?_ Tristan thought as Sam turned away another blow. He had a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. He swung with the sword and the woman brought her shield up to block it. He swiped the air before her with his dagger, but she knocked it away with the pommel of her sword.

Tristan was about to cut in before Sam lost a limb. Plans change quickly during a battle, however. He was sideswiped by another rebel, in the same side he'd been punctured earlier. The pain was intense, but it had to be ignored for the moment. The rebel swung for his head and Tristan barely jumped back out of the way. Recovering from the surprise, Tristan clinked his two swords together and then struck out in a furious assault. He wasn't a natural dual wielder. His skills paled in comparison to, say Melisende, but he'd watched her enough to know what he had to do. The rebel could only block and back away. Tristan was tiring quickly. He swung his leg in an arc on the ground, cutting through the rebel's legs. That was a dirty trick well learned from his old friend Zevran. As the rebel was swept off his feet, Tristan swung out with his fist, unconsciously wincing at the cracking sound as it connected with the rebel. He'd hate to see what the man's face looked like under the mask.

Once he was satisfied the man would be down for at least a few moments, he shifted his attention back to Sam. It still looked like the woman had the upper hand. Tristan couldn't let the fight go on, not if it meant Sam got hurt, or worse, killed. It might wound Sam's pride, but he'd rather that it be the only wound on his young friend.

_Forgive me, Sam_. Tristan barreled into the young man, pushing him hard onto the ground and out of harm's way. He had no time to see Sam's reaction, for the woman did not even flinch as a new opponent appeared before her.

The instant Tristan struck out at her, she brought up her shield to block the blow, and then twirled around so fast that she was behind him. He turned around as quickly as he could and took another swing at her. She dodged that one, too, and was again behind him.

_Maker's breath but she's quick. It's a wonder Sam lasted so long against her…_

He could feel himself growing tired. He tossed away the sword he'd taken from the other rebel. It would only drag him down, seeing as dual wielding was not something he was used to. He thought he heard the woman chuckle. He turned around to see her standing straight and tall as a spear. He imagined she might have a puzzled look on her face beneath the mask.

"Why do you toss away a good blade?" she asked.

"It's only slowing me down," Tristan replied. He rotated his shoulders, feeling and hearing them crack as he did so.

The rebel laughed loudly, tossing back her head in the process. "Yes, it is the blade slowing you down, not your two left feet." She came at him again, her sword poised to strike like a snake. "Lumbering oaf."

Their swords connected in a flurry of sparks and a chorus of clangs. They played a game of strike, parry, and dodge. No one would give the other any room for surprise, any room for the first cut. It became a dance, a hypnotizing waltz between two skilled warriors. Only Tristan couldn't figure out who was leading and who was being led.

He swung, she blocked. She struck, he dodged. He cut through the air, she twirled away effortlessly. The battle around them became a distant blur. Nothing was heard but the sound of blade hitting blade or shield, and their own sweet breathing.

Her hood came off and her abundant brown hair spilled free as she leaned backwards to evade yet another swing. Tristan caught a glimpse of the tip of one of her ears before she righted herself.

"_Andaran atishan_," he greeted her with a taunt. She was most definitely an elf.

She grunted once in annoyance before resuming their dance. The revelation only seemed to make her strike more swiftly, much to Tristan's infinite annoyance. He was growing weary. His steps felt heavier, his arm was almost numb, and he longed to wiggle his fingers and be done with the fight. But truthfully, he didn't want to kill this rebel woman. The fight had to end, though. He just hoped it didn't have to end in taking a life.

Tristan blocked the woman's blade yet again. He stepped backwards, as usual, but this time his foot came down onto something awkward – a rock probably. He struggled to right himself, but his ankle had other ideas as it twisted slightly onto one side. With a cry of pain he fell backwards, stupidly dropping his sword in the process. The rebel crushed his ankle further with her own foot before crawling over him.

"You have lost this fight," she said through heaving breaths. She brought the tip of her sword under his helmet. "You have fought well. I would see your face before I send you to the Beyond in payment for the lives lost to us here today."

The pain in his ankle was so intense that it shot up throughout his body and blocked out everything else that was happening. _Maker, kill me already…_ he thought without realizing she intended to do just that. He just wanted the pain to go away. His eyes closed in anticipation. The rebel pushed his helmet off. The air was like a sweet caress on his face after sweating under the hot sun all through the battle. He waited, and waited for the rebel to run a blade across his throat, through his heart, anything.

_I'm sorry Brenna…_

But nothing happened.

He felt her weight upon him shift. Her hands reached under his chin and faced him towards her. He opened his eyes, wondering what in the Maker's name was taking so long, and saw the flicker of – _recognition?_ – in the woman's grey eyes.

"By the Dread Wolf…" It came out as a whisper. She turned her eyes to the sky before watching the battle around her. A horrified look overcame her as she noticed the rebels were failing to win it. She let him go, gently, and then stood up. She turned around and fled toward the rebel Tristan had bashed in the face. The whiz of a bolt, the thud of a fallen body as the bolt met flesh were a few of the sounds Tristan heard through his pain.

"Eirlys!"

Tristan lifted his head briefly to see the woman being helped up by the other rebel before they and the rest of the Masked Rebels turned tail and fled from the battle.

_Sweet, bloody Andraste, what just happened?_

* * *

Translations:

_Tayeule _= "shut up" (slang)

_Je ne comprend pas. __S'il vous plait_... = I don't understand. Please.

_Andaran atishan _= Dalish/elven greeting


	11. Chapter Ten: Little Bird

Chapter Ten  
Little Bird

Catriel perched hidden behind the leaves of an oak tree. Her line of sight was good, her aim true. Her quiver of arrows would soon be empty. She reached for one of the last, pulled it out, and set it to string in an instant.

"Andruil, let my arrow fly true."

She took aim at a large mercenary, standing over Fenarel with two swords in hand. The shakiness in her hands steadied as she took a deep breath. She could not miss this shot. She pulled back and released. The arrow whizzed through the air. She found that she could not watch so she squeezed her eyes shut.

_Please, please… please!_

When she opened her eyes, she saw that she had missed. The arrow lay at the mercenary's heels. Her heart sank, her gut clenched. Fenarel lay on the ground… yet she couldn't see a pool of blood forming around him. His head appeared to be where it should be. Was he still alive? Had the mercenary spared him?

She felt the mercenary's gaze in her direction. Catriel narrowed her eyes, the anger rising within her, replacing the feeling of dread twisting her stomach. She would not let him get away. She brought her quiver to her side, taking out the last arrow. Quickly loading it up, she shot once more at the mercenary. She didn't close her eyes this time.

But she was too far away. The arrow landed harmlessly a few feet away from the mercenary's feet. He glanced once at the arrow and then turned his attention elsewhere. Catriel let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the trunk of the tree, hugging her knees to her chest.

No more arrows remained at her disposal. She had arrived with a full quiver, sneaking away from a napping Lethra. When she arrived, she found that the raid had turned into a full blown battle. She'd never been expecting that. And so she'd climbed into the oak tree and set to work, picking out targets and releasing. Then she'd recognized Fenarel, in a duel with a much larger and better armed mercenary. Unfortunately, the man had been highly skilled as well. She could do nothing from this perch anymore.

_I should go to Fenarel. He needs help…_

She could not move though. A slight trembling overtook her as the thought of running into the battlefield crossed her mind. _He runs towards me, hunting knife held high in the air, poised to strike down. Instead, I draw my bow and pierce his neck with an arrow. He begs for his life to end. I have done this…_

"No!" Catriel cried out. She withdrew the hunting knife from her belt. She had to stop recalling that memory. She had made a promise to the gods to kill one thousand _shems_ in repayment for her error. Catriel might not have the chevalier's sword, but the hunting knife of the _elvhen_ man she had taken life from would aid her in her quest, starting then and there on the battlefield. She took a deep breath. Fenarel needed her. Only a child trembled at the sight of battle.

Catriel began to climb down the tree, placing the hunting knife between her teeth and lowering herself to the next steady branch below her. As she looked downwards for a foothold, she saw something entirely unexpected.

"_Le petit oiseau, descendre l'arbre!_"

_Ser Thierry_.

The gods wished for her promise to begin so soon, then so be it. Ser Thierry would be an appropriate first sacrifice. And if the chevalier wished to refer to her as a little bird, then she would act as one. She launched herself off the tree by pushing with her legs and opened her arms wide, imitating the wingspan of the hawk she had seen not one day earlier. She plunged toward her prey, catching the look of surprise on the chevalier's face before landing in front of him atop his horse, which whinnied and reared back in equal shock.

Catriel grabbed the knife from her mouth. "The little bird has flown its coop." She raised her hand, ready to strike the chevalier with the knife. But he caught her wrist and twisted as the horse easily righted itself. A cry of pain escaped her lips only to be quickly silenced as the chevalier's other hand wrapped around her neck.

"The necks of birds are fragile things," Ser Thierry snarled, angry spittle hitting Catriel's face. "Easily twisted…" He pressed harder onto her hand, onto her neck. She struggled to breathe. She dropped the hunting knife to the ground and feebly tried to grip onto the chevalier's own neck with her free hand. "Easily broken…" He pressed even harder. Panic began to spread throughout her body. She kicked the horse, she kicked the chevalier's legs, and attempted to wiggle free of the painful hold. Just as her vision began to fade, the chevalier flung her to the ground effortlessly.

The fall was rough, but the air finding its way into her once more blocked out any more feelings of pain.

"Yes, so easy. But where is the fun in ending things quickly?" Ser Thierry unsheathed his sword and held it to the light, momentarily blinding Catriel as she looked up at him from the ground, catching her breath and rubbing her neck. She flexed her wrist, briefly happy to find it was not broken. A fleeting moment of relief before Ser Thierry opened his mouth again.

"Plucking feathers one by one, breaking wings, ripping legs from body, and watching the agony, the fear spread across the eyes as the bird realizes it has flown right into the clutches of an angry predator. _C'est tellement mieux d'être le chat que l'oiseau, non?_ Tell me, little bird, how you will escape this cat when you cannot fly?"

Catriel dragged herself up slowly, despite her shaky legs. She had no weapons, no way of seeing Ser Thierry's blood soak the ground. The horse trotted forward one step, snorting a handbreadth from her face. She straightened to her full height, jutting her chin out proudly.

"I run," she rasped. Catriel turned around, ignoring the laughter of the chevalier, and broke into a run, toward the battle that still raged on atop the highway.

She did not look back. She knew from the sounds of the horse's hooves pounding the ground that the chevalier was galloping after her. She focused instead on where she thought Fenarel lay, though she could not see any body. The pounding grew louder. The distance between her and the mounted chevalier was shortening. She darted to the right, hoping to buy herself more time. The chase went on without a missed beat. Her chest felt about ready to burst with the effort of breathing, with the panic that refused to go away.

Catriel stopped running. The horse ran past her, kicking dust into her face, before it too halted.

_Mythal help me._

Ser Thierry dismounted from his horse with a thud as his boots hit the ground. With a cruel smile he sheathed his sword. He moved slowly toward Catriel. She searched for an escape. The battle was not far off. If she ran, perhaps she could make it this time, now that he was off his horse. But he was in front of her in an instant, grabbing a hold of her by her hair and pulling painfully.

"Let… me… go!" Catriel kicked and clawed at the chevalier. Yet, he was too strong, too big for her to make any difference. He laughed as she struggled to get free. He laughed until he tired of the game. He struck her across the face. Her cheek stung and her vision blurred, but she continued to fight, though it was a little less spirited.

"_Tu penses que tu pouvais m'humilier sans conséquences? __Penses encore maudite sauvage._" He yanked her toward his horse. Ser Thierry pulled out a length of rope from his horse and tied her hands together roughly. He ripped her bow from her back, breaking it in two effortlessly. She couldn't help but cry out at the sight; she'd had that bow for a very long time. Her mother had given it to her. Ser Thierry jeered at her before lifting her up and tossing her onto his horse. She felt his weight behind her an instant later. She closed her eyes, wishing for some wisdom from the gods, some way to get out of this, when Ser Thierry grasped her chin and forced her to look at the battle. "_Regardez, votre peuple s'enfuit. Ils perdent la bataille_."

She refused to open her eyes. She refused to believe what the chevalier was telling her. The battle was not lost to her people. They would not run away. Her mother would never run away. His hold tightened and he forced her face forward.

"_Regardez!_"

Catriel did not want to give him what he wanted. She squeezed her eyes closed even tighter and as she did so, his grip on her chin left. But there was to be no relief. He pulled on her hair, causing her eyes to fly open. Her heart nearly stopped at what she saw.

They _were_ fleeing. Some faster than others, others helping others, but one thing was clear, their backs had turned on the battle. Catriel sucked in her breath and then let it all go in a piercing scream.

_Don't leave me here!_

Her scream was stifled by Ser Thierry's hand. Even so, it went on and on, though it would hardly be audible to her people. To her mother. When it subsided to nothing, Catriel bit down as hard as she could onto Ser Thierry's finger. Her teeth pierced through the leather of his gloves, one side getting stuck on a piece of metal. But she tasted blood, and it was sweet.

"_Chienne!_" Ser Thierry cried out. His pain gave her the courage she needed. She brought one leg over the horse's head and slid down to the ground. She pushed forward without thought. She needed to catch up with the rebels. She needed to feel safe.

And all hope of that was lost as an arm wrapped around waist, lifting her off of the ground and turning her away from the sight of the fleeing rebels. Another chevalier caught her. Ser Thierry walked toward her, his face set in an angry snarl, and Catriel braced herself for another blow, one that never came. Instead, Ser Thierry motioned for the chevalier holding her to shove her forward, which he did. Catriel landed hard on her knees.

She kept her gaze to the ground and did not look up. Footsteps sounded around her. Voices filled the air. Hoof beats came to halts around her. Horses neighed, snorted, and champed at the bit to go.

_Would that I could go…_

"_Pourquoi tu ne suis pas les rebelles?_" Ser Thierry's voice rang out above the others.

"_Le comte a dit qu'on doit seulement faire peur aux rebelles. Ils ne vont pas essayer ca encore, non si ils veulent garder leurs têtes_."

Catriel heard some angry muttering from Ser Thierry before she saw his feet circle her and felt her hair being pulled yet again. She was forced to stand up, to look upon everyone around her. The mercenaries stared at her with hard, cold faces. The blood of her people stained them. She stared back defiantly.

"_Cette petite oiseau peut nous dire tous qu'on besoin pour rendre les rebelles rien plus qu'un remarque dans les pages d'histoire_." Ser Thierry spoke to a grey haired mercenary, who gazed upon her with something akin to disgust.

"I will tell you nothing, _shem'len_," Catriel stated. Her voice remained harsh from having the breath nearly squeezed out of her. Ser Thierry pulled harder on her hair. _By the gods, if he keeps doing this I shall have no hair at all… but I will never remain quiet._

The grey haired mercenary, probably the leader, continued to study her, fingering his chin in thought. She could feel the impatience seeping out of Ser Thierry as he shifted on his feet. She wondered why he listened to the mercenary. He was a chevalier, after all.

_He is a coward…_

"If she knows what is good for her, she will speak…" Ser Thierry threatened.

Another mercenary pushed through the crowd, limping to the leader's side. His eyes met hers for the briefest of seconds before he turned to the older man. "A child, commandant?"

The moment dragged on in silence. Catriel's heart raced. Would they really make her talk? What were they going to do to her? She shifted her gaze back to the ground, unable to look any longer at the cold stares in her direction. They were heartless men, all of them.

"We will bring her to the count. He will decide what to do with her."

Ser Thierry flicked her away as the commandant spoke his final say on the matter. Catriel felt awash in relief, though she knew it wouldn't last. They may not make her speak now, but wherever the count was, he might. She resolved not to say anything. If the rebels had gotten away, she vowed it would stay that way.

"Bernard, take charge of the prisoner."

Catriel didn't realize that the commandant had meant her until she felt herself being pulled up from the ground. A prisoner… she was a prisoner. She looked up at the man named Bernard, the same man that had seemed to protest against taking a child. He looked upon her with pity and handled her gently, shocking in comparison to her earlier treatment. She resented him anyway.

"Don't touch me." Catriel attempted to squirm away, though she knew it was futile. She couldn't escape, even if he walked with a limp. She was surrounded by these honorless _lamalouis_. Ser Thierry trotted away on his horse with the commandant and the rest of them dispersed, but it was still hopeless.

Bernard said nothing, only marched her forward to the site of the battle. Catriel recognized a few of the dead littering the ground. Tears welled up beneath her eyes as she mumbled the names of each she saw. "Athras… Rinna… Paivel… Ashalle… Ghilriel…" and there were more that she could not see.

"You knew them all?" Bernard's voice broke her trance.

She didn't answer, only lifted her bound hands and wiped away the tears before they spilled. She prayed that her mother, that Fenarel were not among the other dead. Perhaps she would never know the truth.

Ser Thierry pulled up on his horse in front of them. Bernard shielded her from the condescending gaze of the chevalier, whose hand hovered dangerously over the hilt of his sheathed sword. For how much longer would it remain in its sheathe? Catriel could only guess, but by the look on his face, she supposed he didn't very much like Bernard.

"She can ride with the dead. And you too, dog." Ser Thierry motioned toward a wagon not far off before kicking his horse and riding away.

Catriel thought she heard Bernard mutter an insult, but she wasn't sure. She found it odd that this man leading her to the wagon seemed to speak only in the Ferelden tongue. Perhaps he was not Orlesian. In the end, it made no difference to her. A _shem_ was a _shem_, no matter where he hailed from. They reached the wagon and she climbed in before he could touch her again. She'd had enough of _shem'lens_ touching her for a lifetime.

Catriel was almost glad to see her people had taken a few lives. Until she saw the brief flicker of regret pass over Bernard's face as he, much to her regret, crawled into the wagon after her. Had he known these men? He obviously had. Had he been close to them? She thought of her own people. The dead she had seen and recognized. Would anyone come back for the dead? Would they be left to the vultures, like the man she had killed…? She knew how he felt, but couldn't bring herself to emit any kind of outward show of sympathy.

She studied him as he sat across from her. He'd lost his helmet, but she knew now who he was – he was the one that had injured Fenarel, perhaps even killed her friend. "Would that my arrow had struck true..."

Bernard returned her grievous look with one of confusion before he seemed to realize what she meant. Yet, he did not say anything in return, only turned his attention to his ankle. Catriel followed his gaze, noticing how the man's ankle looked bent in an odd direction.

The wagon shook as another _shem_ hopped in, glaring angrily at the one named Bernard.

"You didn't have to interfere. I had the bitch!"

"Oh really?" Bernard scoffed in disbelief. "From where I stood, it looked anything but. In fact, she had you backed into a corner and would have sliced off your head had I not jumped in."

The other _shem_, younger than Bernard, lifted his hands in anger. "So you're a seer now? You couldn't have known."

"See to your arm." Bernard motioned with a slight nod of his chin toward the younger man's arm, which had quite a cut running across it.

"I take great pleasure in knowing that you did not fare any better against her. Maker only knows why she spared you in the last minute." The younger man stood up and lowered his voice, though not low enough that Catriel could not hear. "I wish to the Maker she had killed us both."

"You don't mean that."

The younger man stared down Bernard for a long moment before answering. "Do you even really know me, _brother_?"

Bernard eyed his brother in confusion before the younger man jumped out of the wagon.

"So you're going to walk back?"

"No, I'm hitching a ride in another wagon." The younger man looked back once before turning away completely. "This one is cursed."

Bernard frowned and turned his attention back to his ankle. Catriel watched in silence, not knowing what to think of what she just heard and witnessed. She flinched ever so slightly as a blue glow from underneath Bernard's hand washed over his ankle.

_Magic?_

She studied his face. He didn't look so pained anymore. Perhaps he had healed himself. But why would he chance doing that in front of her? She thought all mages were sent to towers. Maybe it had something to do with his tattoos. They were faded, but faintly recognizable, though she couldn't quite place them in her memory.

"Nice brother you have," she lashed out. "Wishing you dead. It gladdens my heart to know that it is not only me who wishes for that."

He looked up in surprise, like he forgot that she had been there all along. "He…" and then he said nothing else, just sighed and turned away from her gaze.

The wagon lurched forward. It was too late to run. The stench of the dead bodies was too much to bear. She rubbed her nose. Her hands moved up to her eyes, where tears had welled up once more. She did not want to cry. She would not let herself.

_I will find a way out of this…_

Bernard watched her with something like pity, before rubbing his nose himself. He reached for a tarp and pulled it over the dead bodies with a sorrowful expression etched onto his face. He fumbled for something at his side, pulling out a piece of cloth. He threw it toward her, landing on her arm. Catriel picked it up, staring at it in confusion.

"You've got a cut on your cheek."

She looked away from the _lamalouis_. Ser Thierry's whack to her face still hurt. Despite her anger with the man named Bernard, she brought the cloth to her cheek and slowly wiped away the blood. There had to be a way out.

_What will happen to me?_

* * *

Translations:

_Le petit oiseau, descendre l'arbre! _= Little bird, come down from the tree!

_C'est tellement mieux d'être le chat que l'oiseau, non? _= It is so much better to be the cat than the bird, no?

_Tu penses que tu pouvais m'humilier sans conséquences? __Penses encore maudite sauvage._ = You think you can humiliate me without consequences? Think again damned savage.

_Regardez, votre peuple s'enfuit. Ils perdent la bataille_. = Look, your people flee. They have lost the battle.

_Regardez!_ = Look!

_Chienne!_ = Bitch!

_Pourquoi tu ne suis pas les rebelles?_ = Why do you not follow the rebels?

_Le comte a dit qu'on doit seulement faire peur aux rebelles. Ils ne vont pas essayer ca encore, non si ils veulent garder leurs têtes_. = The count said that we should only scare the rebels. They won't try this again, not if they want to keep their heads.

_Cette petite oiseau peut nous dire tous qu'on besoin pour rendre les rebelles rien plus qu'un remarque dans les pages d'histoire_. = This little bird can tell us all we need to render the rebels nothing more than a side note in the pages of history.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Unyielding

Chapter Eleven  
Unyielding

"You will tell us everything."

"I will tell you _nothing_."

They had left her alone in a cold, dark cell the night before. They thought perhaps it would break her. But Catriel had spent many hours in her mother's "pit of reflection" – a small hole in the caverns used to punish minor transgressions. The dark, small spaces, none of that frightened her.

Now, they surrounded her in a large room. On her knees with her hands bound in iron shackles before her, she refused to meet their gazes. She had not planned to speak, but their repeated questions had irritated her to the point where her fury could no longer be suppressed.

Catriel had always been quick to temper. _Do not let your tongue cut your throat_. Her mother was fond of sayings. Catriel imagined this would be the one she would let out at this moment. Yet, it was hard for Catriel to back down. She hadn't slept nor eaten for a long time. The more they pushed her, the harder it was to keep refusing.

"Nothing. I will tell you nothing," she repeated, giving her tone of voice as stern and final a warning.

"Perhaps if you would loosen the shackles from her wrists, the girl would be more inclined to speak to us." It was an old woman, dressed in the robes of their chantry. Catriel followed the woman's feet with her eyes until they stopped in front of her. The woman lifted Catriel's chin gently and looked straight into her eyes. A shadow of pity flickered through the old woman's gaze. "She is only a girl, after all."

"Mother Bramimonde," the head of the merchant's association bellowed. "This _girl_ is a rebel, undermining Orlais every chance she gets." Catriel learned earlier that his name was Drouin, when he introduced himself. She did not give her name. She would not see it spoken by the _shem'lens_.

"And yet, what proof do you have? What has she done but follow her elders? She is a child of the Maker, undeserving of this cruel treatment you place upon her. _Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker_…"

Catriel's fury coursed through her veins. This woman knew nothing of her. How dare she place her under the Maker's wing? "I piss on your Maker!" Catriel wrenched her head to the side, breaking free of the chantry woman's light grip.

"You see how savage they are!" It was Ser Thierry, pushing through to the front, followed by a fellow chevalier. "We should have run them down when we had the chance. This girl should be executed immediately."

"Surely the girl has done nothing to warrant that," Mother Bramimonde cut in.

"_Elle était l__à__, __à__ la première embuscade. __Je l'ai vu avec mes propres yeux_," Ser Thierry continued his harangue, undisturbed by the chantry mother's interruption. Catriel risked a glance up and saw that the chevalier was staring right at her. A chill went down her spine and she looked away quickly.

"Might I respectfully remind everyone that somebody was killed in the ambush that Ser Thierry speaks of," Drouin pointed out to the crowd. Catriel sucked in her breath. She hoped that they did not notice her flinch.

"She knows what happened. She knows where the rebels are." Ser Thierry lowered his voice. "Hand her over to me, and I will find out everything."

The thought of being handed over into Ser Thierry's custody made Catriel want to retch. She couldn't let that happen. But she would not talk. "I wish I had run you through..." she said in the chevalier's direction.

"_Et voil__à__!_" Ser Thierry stamped his foot in triumph. "She admits to being there."

"I admit nothing!" Catriel lifted her chin defiantly and narrowed her gaze at the chevalier.

A ridiculously attired man stood up and cleared his throat. Everyone immediately turned to him, respectfully. He wandered slowly to where Catriel sat, ignoring the chevalier completely, before coming to a halt in front of her.

"I am Count Nevelon. With one word, I can have my men do exactly what Ser Thierry wishes; I can have you executed. I can hand you over to the chevalier if I so wanted." The count looked over his shoulder to the chevalier before returning his gaze to Catriel. "That, _mon cherie_, is a fate far worse than death."

"With respect, count..." Mother Bramimonde's protest trailed off into nothing as the count held up a hand in warning.

"If you do not tell us what happened, who killed Drouin's servant... Soris..."

Catriel lowered her eyes. The man she killed had a name..._ Soris_...

"...and if you do not tell us where the Masked Rebels are hiding, who they are, how many of them remain, who is helping them, we will execute you for murder, for treason, for subversion against the state. It does not matter the crime, you will be held guilty for all the rebels have done, unless you give us what we want."

It felt like her heart was being squeezed right out of her chest. She couldn't give them what they wanted. She could not betray her people. In a way, she had started this anyway. They didn't know that she was guilty. Letting them execute her would only be... right.

"It is up to you now, child." The count returned to his seat. He drummed his fingers on the arm rests and stared at Catriel.

"I..." she didn't know what to say. All she knew was that she couldn't betray her people. "I killed Soris."

The room was silent for an agonizing moment. And then they all burst into laughter. Even Ser Thierry. Catriel's anger rose once more. They didn't believe her able to do such a thing? They thought her only a child? They wanted the truth and she had given it to them, and now they were throwing it back in her face.

"Soris... killed by a girl?" Drouin laughed the loudest of them all. "The man was useless, like all his knife-eared kind, but I hardly believe that he met his end at the hands of a girl."

"I did it!" Catriel shouted. "I killed him. Go ahead, execute me."

"This is funny to everyone?" A voice rose above all the laughter. Catriel could not see from whom it came, until he stepped forward from out of the crowd. _Bernard, the Fereldan_. "You would punish a child for the crimes of her people?"

"Years ago, it was an imaginary rebellion, to lure Empress Celene from her capital, then it became real. They have yet to attack Jader, the cowards, but they pester our trade, our economy. Now, our lives! It must end." The count shifted in his chair. "Would that I had ordered the complete slaughter, like Ser Thierry had urged, then there would be no need for this."

"And you think this will end it? The death of a child?" Bernard gestured to Catriel to make his point. She deeply resented them all. She was not a child. They were trying to scare her, and that was all. Unless they truly didn't think so, for they would not consider executing her, would they? Bernard should shut his mouth and let this interrogation be over with.

"She is old enough to spread her legs and pop out further spawn," Ser Thierry interjected.

Bernard gave the man a disgusted look before turning back to the count. "Do you have a death wish? Or is there something wrong with your head? You must know that killing her, _a child_, will only make things worse. Things will _not_ get better."

A hush fell over the room. The _lamalouis_ dared to insult nobility in front of many people. Catriel started to wonder if he had a death wish. Why was he defending her? He could have avoided all this by letting her loose from the wagon that had brought her to this gods-forsaken city. She also noticed, as Bernard paced around in impatience, that he did not limp anymore.

The count clenched his arm rests so hard the whites of his knuckles were visible even to Catriel who sat quite a distance away from him. He lifted his chin in arrogance and stared down Bernard. "And what do you care? You are not from here. You are not even a true knight. The hanging will take place tomorrow if she does not give us what we need."

"No, you are right. I am not from here. Despite that, I do care what happens. This _Orlesian_ justice will serve only to hurt your own people. But what do I know?" Bernard lifted his shoulders. "I am no true knight after all."

Catriel noticed that the commandant of the mercenaries had inched closer to Bernard. No doubt the man was angry about one of his own speaking out against the count. Yet, he did not interrupt. He looked almost… proud.

"Someone must pay for these crimes." Drouin clasped his heavily bejeweled fingers in front of his large stomach.

"Countless already have." Bernard turned onto the head of the merchant's association. "The Crimson Knights, the Masked Rebels – all have paid the ultimate price. For what? So that you can execute a mere girl?"

The count sighed in boredom and shifted in his seat, yet he did not say anything further.

Drouin inclined his head in agreement, meanwhile. "You are right, of course. Many have paid." Drouin turned to the count. Count Nevelon snapped his fingers, and the Seneschal rushed away to the back of the room. A door was opened and a shuffle of feet was all that could be heard. Catriel remained seated on the floor. Her heart raced. She stopped herself from shaking for the time being. She had to be brave. They were only trying to frighten her.

_They will not kill me…_

A gasp arose from somewhere in the room. A whispered prayer from Mother Bramimonde and a sister beside her turned Catriel's stomach. Chains could be heard dragging across the room. Catriel did not want to look. She did not want to see what they had brought in.

"Look, little bird," a harsh whisper from Ser Thierry into her ear. She nearly jumped out of her skin. He made her feel as if she were crawling with bugs.

"No," she replied sternly, leaning away from the vile chevalier. But he twisted her head up.

Tears welled and spilled out of her eyes and any strength that remained within her departed, along with any defiance. Guion stood before her, propped up by two guards. He was bloody and beaten, one eye closed and crusted over. His hair was matted. Bruises covered most of his visible skin and there was even a faint scent of burnt skin in the air around him.

"This is what happens to people who do not cooperate with me," Ser Thierry warned in a low and menacing tone.

"Give us what we need, child, and you shall be set free," the count said from his chair.

Catriel could not look away from Guion. His head lolled to one side before he seemed to recognize her through his only good eye.

"Don't…!" Guion rasped out before the guards kicked the feet from under him and he fell to the ground. He sputtered and coughed out blood onto the floor.

"Take him away before he bloodies the room any further." The count waved away the guards. As they dragged away poor Guion, the count stood up from his chair. "Let her feel the wrath of the townspeople… maybe then she will loosen her tongue."

A guard pulled her up from the ground. She could barely stand. She could hardly even see through the tears welling in her eyes. She watched as they took Guion away, until they turned her in another direction. She had to do something. She had to get away.

"Mage!" she shouted. She squirmed away from the guards for one brief second, enough to lift her shackled hands and point at Bernard. "I know you are a mage. I saw you heal your ankle. If you truly wanted to help me, you would send chaos within this room with the palms of your hands!"

Curious looks were sent in the mercenary's direction. Bernard did not even flinch, only watched in silence as Catriel was once again handled roughly by the guards. The crowd in the room began to disperse slowly. Catriel planted her feet onto the floor as firmly as she could, forcing the guards to drag her. She never took her eyes off of the mercenary, pleading with him for help. He'd defended her this day, he'd even shown a bit of kindness in the wagon. Why wouldn't he do as she asked?

Instead, he came to her side. "I'll escort her."

The guards looked back to the count, who must have agreed, though for the life of her, Catriel could not understand why after all the insults the man had sent toward the count. Whatever the reasons, they let her go into the custody of Bernard the mercenary.

…

The girl was reluctant to get into the cage. It was in the middle of the keep's courtyard, visible to the townsfolk from the gates, close enough for them to hurl things her way if they so wanted to. But Tristan hoped they would be more sensible than their superiors. The girl was just a girl after all.

Her words had stunned him. _Mage_. His reaction was slow in coming. In the end, he decided denying it would only arouse suspicions. Nobody seemed to believe her anyway. Who would believe the words of a rebel girl child over that of a deputy mercenary? Still, he was slightly angry with her.

Yet, he didn't blame her. She was frightened. She had seen a way out with him. It was his own fault, for defending her against the count. It was disgusting what they were doing. The mere fact that they were considering executing her if she didn't reveal anything to them, made Tristan want to do exactly as she had asked of him. But it wasn't that easy.

"Just get in," he told the girl. She reluctantly climbed in after sending an angry frown his way.

"Why are you doing this? After all you said…" she stopped herself from saying more and then looked away.

"It's not as easy as you think," he reassured her as the cage door clicked shut. He spotted Sam by the gates and gestured him over. It was futile; the man did not want to speak to him since Tristan had so selfishly pushed him out of the fight with the Dalish warrior woman.

"Whatever," the girl replied before turning away. "I will never betray my people and I don't need the help of a _shem_ anyway."

"I'm sorry," Tristan said. _You don't know who you speak to, girl. I am an elf-blooded _shem. But he didn't say that. The girl would not look at him and remained silent. There was nothing more he could do there for the moment. He made his way toward Sam, running a hand through his hair, and wondering what he could possibly say or do to make things better.

"Sam," he took a chance and whispered when he had reached the younger man. He turned around but did not look at Tristan, only looked beyond him to the cage.

"They are caging the girl?" Sam asked. He made it sound as if he was asking no one in particular.

_He's still angry with me._

"They are." Tristan nodded.

"How could you let them do that?" This time Sam did look at him. Anger filled his eyes and creased the features of his face. "She is only a child. I was only a child…"

"What do you mean?"

Sam let out an angry breath before looking away. "Never mind. You weren't there, of course."

Tristan stepped back at the vehemence. "Orzammar?"

Sam did not reply, but Tristan knew that was what he'd been referring to. He never had learned all the details of that particular time. He knew only that Melisende and Sam had paid dearly for something he had done during the Blight. He never once thought of pressing Sam for details. Perhaps he should have. "You can talk to me. I'd like to know what happened."

Sam snorted. "Right. Anyway, I'm over it."

Tristan could see, however, that Sam was not over it. The way he bunched his fists, ground his feet into the dirt, and narrowed his eyes as he looked upon the girl in the cage, the memory was still alive in Sam's mind. Tristan decided not to press the matter. Sam was already furious enough with him. Instead, he had something for the younger man to do.

"Can you keep guard on her, just for a little while? I don't trust the count's guards and I don't particularly trust the townsfolk, though I doubt they are as stupid as the count likes to think they are. Try to get her to talk."

"Are you asking or commanding this of me?" Sam asked, folding his arms and crinkling his eyes in suspicion.

"I am only asking." He would do it himself, only he needed to clear his head. And, honestly, he thought Sam might have a better chance at getting her to talk. If they could get to her before the others did, perhaps they had a chance of saving her.

"Then, I will do it, for her sake." Sam walked away, to the cage which held the elven girl.

…

Atop the walls of Jader, the breeze was warm and refreshing. It blocked out the smells of the city and even most of the sounds. Yet, nothing could block the troubled thoughts from Tristan's mind. Why couldn't the Orlesians see that treating the girl in this way, executing her, was a bad idea?

This whole thing with the rebels could have been over by now. If he had stopped Ser Thierry from chasing the girl from the tree. If he had released her from the wagon. If he had let loose a maelstrom of fire in the keep.

_Caging a child. Executing a child. _

"I have lost my way," he murmured to the wind. When had he become such a person? He never would have let anything like this happen when he was commander. How did it come to this?

The commandant had mentioned before the raid that letting the rebels go would mean more coin for the Crimson Knights later. And he had agreed, like a stupid, blind fool. And the commandant had convinced the count. They had lost a few of their brothers. The rebels had lost more. And now this whole situation was spiraling into something more than it should be.

_Greed… it is all for greed. But what is it about for the rebels?_

The rebels were Dalish. They wanted the Dales, no doubt. It was one of their homelands. Yet it didn't make any sense to Tristan. Why would they put a girl in that position?

"You look troubled." Magalie stopped by his side, leaning her elbows against the top of the wall, and glancing once over her shoulder toward him.

"Who wouldn't be, in this situation?"

"Apparently, everyone but you…" Magalie sighed. "And perhaps me."

"_Perhaps_ you?" Tristan turned himself fully toward Magalie. He was surprised to see her there. Once, he might even have been annoyed, but he found her presence oddly comforting.

"I was a girl once, believe it or not. I remember what it is like to feel like the whole world is against you. Those lecherous, vile men will regret all of this."

He had a feeling she meant more than just the here and now. "Ser Thierry?"

Magalie scratched at the stone battlements, seemingly lost in thought. "If she is lucky, her family will come to her aid."

"If they are not dead." An image of the battlefield surfaced in his mind. There had been many dead, on both sides. Some of them might have been dear to the girl. She had recited the names of all those she had seen strewn dead on the ground.

"I was not particularly close to my father." Magalie's gaze rested on the town below, but she didn't seem to be paying any real attention to what was going on below. "He promised me one life in front of my face and sold me out behind my back. For all that, he gave life to me and did the best he could... blood should stick together."

"You were lucky to know your father." Tristan watched as a guardsman walked past behind them and then returned his gaze to Magalie.

"_Chanceux comme un bossu._" She chuckled and then leaned back against the wall, her back to the wind, which blew her hair into her face so that he could not read her expression. "The count is right. The girl would be better off executed than falling into the hands of Ser Thierry."

"Your words are all over the place." Tristan wasn't quite sure what Magalie wanted to speak of. Her family? The girl? Or... "What is it about Ser Thierry? You told me before that it was a long story. There is time now. Tell me." He reached for her arm and touched it lightly before pulling back, waiting for her to speak.

Magalie brushed her hair back behind her ears. He was beginning to think she wasn't going to say anything when she stood up straight and looked him in the eye. "As a girl, I dreamt of becoming a chevalier, just like my father. But when I was sixteen, my father was killed in a battle between Empress Celene and rebellious nobles. Little did I know, he had made plans for me to marry Thierry, ending all my combat training. I was so sad. But, forgive me I am so despicable, I was more sad that I wouldn't be a chevalier than because my father died. I would have been traded away for a handful of goats and my dreams crushed."

"That seems like a reasonable reaction and not despicable at all. If Ser Thierry was anything like he is now…"

Magalie laughed. "In some ways, he was worse. But then again, what he has planned for that girl, he is infinitely more disgusting now."

Tristan did not want to think about what those _plans_ might mean. "So what happened? You didn't actually marry him, did you?"

"No," she shook her head. "He came to me, bragging about the contract, waving it in my face. I did not like him. I did not trust him. I was suspicious of his part surrounding my father's death. My father had signed away all his lands and property to his future son-in-law, should he die, the day before the battle. Something was not right. My mother urged me to marry anyway. But I would not let Thierry get his hands on what should have been mine alone. In the end, because I would not marry him, the magistrates absorbed my father's property into the count's own and neither I nor Ser Thierry got anything. I left, in anger, in shame. You see now, why I was not happy to return home? My mother hates me for losing my father's legacy and fortune. And I hate Thierry for it all."

"I'm sorry." He could find no other words to comfort her and so he reached out once again and touched her hand that rested against the top of the wall. "If I could do anything to help you, I would."

Magalie chuckled halfheartedly. "_Ce qui est fait, est fait_. What's done, is done. You are kind to offer, but that is in the past now. You could... however... tell me a bit about yourself."

"What would you possibly want to know about me?" he grinned, though he found his nerves suddenly on edge.

"Would your parents swoop down and rescue you from the clutches of an execution?" Magalie smiled and awaited his answer.

Tristan wanted nothing more than to run away at the moment. His parents... they had abandoned him as an infant. His mother, because she thought she was giving him a better life. His father, because he was a coward who couldn't stand up for himself, who thought running away would be the best option for them all.

_Maker, I am just like my father..._

"_Alors?_"

"There is nothing much to tell," he replied with a sigh.

"I told you my sad story, what is yours?"

He took a deep breath. "My mother would do anything for me. Sometimes I think she cares too much. My father, on the other hand, I... was never close to him. I cannot say what he would do in the event I was to be executed." He had a sudden tight feeling in his chest, remembering the day he was to be executed, only to have Sam come along and free him.

Magalie looked at him with a curious glint in her eye._ "_Oliver mentioned once both parents were lost to the Blight… you make it sound like they are alive."

Tristan cursed his stupidity. Of course he and Sam would have different stories of their parents. They did not have the same parents. He should have known Sam would have blabbed about to the other mercenaries. He had to cover his slip of the tongue. "They are alive only in my memories."

_Wow, great recovery Tristan. Way to make yourself look like a complete sap…_

Quiet descended between them for a moment. Tristan wondered what was going through her mind. He never should have said anything, even if what he did say was not much at all. Magalie intertwined her fingers in between his, and he realized that once again, he'd been touching her hand the whole time they'd been talking. She brought his hand up in the air between them and a smirk covered her face.

"How's the ankle?" she asked.

Tristan lifted a brow in surprise. She had been in the room during the interrogation. Had she heard what the girl said, or was this query completely unrelated? "You believe the girl?" he ventured on the former. Magalie was proving to be as sharp and cunning as an Antivan Crow.

"These fingers certainly have worked magic on me before – though I suspect she meant something entirely different." She licked her bottom lip and smiled playfully.

He chuckled, but couldn't help feeling like she was on to him. He would have to be even more careful around her from now on. Otherwise, things might get very complicated, not just for him, but for Sam as well.

_Why did I ever get myself involved with this woman?_

The heat between them told him all he needed to know.

* * *

Translations:

_Elle était là, à la première embuscade. Je l'ai vu avec mes propres yeux. = _She was there, at the first ambush. I saw her with my own eyes.

_Et voilà! = _And there you are! (or, less literally, "and there you have it!")

_Chanceux comme un bossu. = _lucky as a hunchback (sarcasm)

_Alors? = _So?


	13. Chapter Twelve: Common Ground

Chapter Twelve  
Common Ground

Catriel studied the _elvhen_ man in front of her cage. His dark hair fell over his shoulders, shrouding most of his face in mystery as he ran a whetstone across a small knife. The noise was trancelike, sharp and steady as the man's hands.

"What is your name, brother?" she asked, craning her head between the bars of her cage, wanting to see closely the progress of the man's efforts.

He did not take his eyes off his task. "Trust me girl, I am no brother of yours."

"Then... what is your name?"

The whetstone caressed the blade once more before the man paused to wipe it down with a piece of cloth. "I am beginning to understand why Oliver left you to me. You talk a lot. More than a lot. Too much."

The man Bernard had set to guard over her was his brother, Oliver. But Oliver had disappeared a few moments ago, sending this _elvhen_ mercenary in his stead. Catriel was not too disappointed. Oliver had bothered her to no end, speaking of nonsense, nonsense which she blocked out after a while and retreated to the back of the cage, ignoring the _shem_. Perhaps this man, because he was one of the people, would be able to help her. At least, that was what she hoped. It was not going so well so far, however. "I said nothing to Oliver, though he tried to get me to talk."

He turned his attention to her then, piercing her with his light green eyes. They were so pale that there was something frightening about them to Catriel. She flinched backwards at the snarling look he gave her.

"If you're going to talk, say something useful. Tell us where your people are cowering in fear. Save yourself a lot of heartache," he said.

"My people?" Confusion clouded her thoughts. She leaned in a bit closer to the mercenary, rubbing her ears for emphasis. "They are yours also."

"They are not," he replied.

Still confused, Catriel furrowed her brow. "Are you not _elvhen_?"

"I am Stanislaw."

"Now you tell me your name."

"Now, will you shut up?" Stanislaw pulled out a round fruit from the pack at his side and began to peel it slowly with his newly sharpened knife. Catriel felt a shudder pass through her at the sight.

"You tell me to save myself a lot of heartache and reveal everything. But I won't, because if I do so, that will cause all the pain in my heart. I would never betray my people."

"And yet here you are, fending for yourself." Stanislaw popped a piece of the fruit's skin into his mouth. He carelessly waved his knife around. "Where are your people now? Why haven't they come for you?"

"I don't know. I... I was not supposed to follow on the raid. Perhaps they don't even know where I am."

"Yes, keep telling yourself that if it'll make you feel better. And most importantly, if it will make you shut up."

"You are of my people. You can help me."

Stanislaw laughed and went to work on the fruit again, skinning it with his knife. "I told you before, I am not of your people."

"Why?" Catriel could not understand the man. She felt her frustration rising trying to figure him out. And most of all, she felt her stomach rumble as he put another piece of the succulent looking fruit into his mouth. She had never seen that type of fruit before. It was making her hunger hard to ignore. "Why would you turn your back on your people? Why would you spend your life among the _shems_, serving them and killing in their name? What happened to you to make you so bitter?"

"What happened to you, that you would hate the humans so much?" He stopped skinning the fruit and met her confused gaze with a cold one. His voice was rough and set in a menacing tone. "Did one of them hurt you? Did one of them murder your family in front of your eyes?"

"No..." Catriel shook her head slowly.

"Then shut up."

Catriel groaned. "But you see how they treat me. Is it any wonder why we rebel?"

"It is a wonder why you rebel." Stanislaw turned his back on her. She didn't understand him. Perhaps she was wasting her time trying to talk to him, to get him to help her. She couldn't give up so easily, though.

"You know the Dales belong to us. It is rightfully ours."

"Go ahead, take back the Dales. You'll go hungry within a year." He tossed a piece of bruised fruit onto the ground and covered it in dirt with the soles of his boots. Catriel felt her stomach rumble once again. "Nothing can grow in that wasteland."

"We will take Halamshiral," she said with defiance.

Stanislaw chuckled slowly. "You and what army? Did you not see how many of you fell?"

"You are a traitor to your people."

"You know not what you speak of and should close your mouth before you look more the fool than you already look."

"I am not a fool."

"You are a child that knows not of what she speaks of."

Catriel closed her eyes, willing her fury to stay deep within her. She needed this man to help her. He was her only hope to escape this cage. After taking a deep breath, she reached her bound hands as far out of the cage as she could, rattling her shackles in the air in a last plea. "Help me."

Stanislaw did not even turn her way. "No."

"Raaahh," Catriel shouted. She wrenched her hands back within the cage and retreated back to the corner. Her heart beat furiously. She couldn't tell at the moment whether it was in anger or fear. "Fine. Rest your loyalty with the _shems_, be their slave. Me, I will die on the morrow."

"You know nothing of slavery." Stanislaw finished his fruit off. He twirled the knife in his hand, mesmerized by its movement.

"I know that it is better to break bread standing up than to eat a steak with bended knee."

"Dream on, and you will dream on into eternity tomorrow." Not even a shred of pity from him.

"I will gladly do so," Catriel retorted in fury. But it was a lie, a terrible lie.

"Strong words for a child." Stanislaw turned around to face her. A mocking smile decorated his face. His next words came out in a whispering drawl, his hands mimicking the actions he spoke of. "We will see how you feel when they drag you to the gallows and place the noose around your neck. When you beg for one last sight of your mother before they drop you to the ground and snap your neck."

"You don't know me." It came out in a stammer.

"I see the fear in your eyes. The fear of death..."

She gulped back the growing fear. He was right, she was afraid. She might deserve death for what she had done, yet the thought of that finality was frightening. She did not want to die. There were things left unfinished in this world, like the promise she made to the gods.

"Stanislaw..." It was Oliver, returned from wherever he went off to in the first place. "You can go now."

Stanislaw spit onto the ground, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then stood up. "It's about time you came back."

"Go," Catriel said with vehemence. "Be a _lamalouis_. Earn your coin killing your own people. The gods will forsake you in the end."

Stanislaw swirled around so quickly with a vicious glint in his eyes as he pressed his knife against the cage. "You wouldn't say that if a cage did not separate us."

Catriel had not flinched back at the man's reaction. The knife's point rested in front of her eyes. She gazed down the blade defiantly. "I would."

That was a lie. Stanislaw knew it. He laughed, slow and quiet at first, until it grew into a frighteningly mad kind of laughter. Oliver wrenched him away from the cage. "Stanislaw, go now. Forget about the girl."

Stanislaw took one long last look in Catriel's direction and it was all she could do to keep herself from trembling.

"I will," he said. He turned around and left, his laughter abruptly stopping as he walked away. Catriel wondered if he meant he would go or that he would forget about her. He was her last hope. What a failure that had been. He'd proven to be nothing more than a cowardly traitor to his people. And he was maddening.

Oliver watched Stanislaw's back until it faded from view and then he turned toward Catriel. "Are you all right?" His eyes crinkled in surprising concern.

"What do you care?" Even so, Catriel found she could breathe again. She hadn't noticed that she had been holding her breath since the knife closed in on her face.

"I probably should not have left you with him... Stanislaw is not the nicest person around."

Oliver gripped a bar of the cage with one hand and seemed to study her. She grew uncomfortable under his gaze and backed away slowly, smoothing down her hair at the same time. She hated to admit it, but he was nice to look at, for a _shem_. Especially after her encounter with Stanislaw, she was almost happy Oliver had returned. His blonde hair was neatly pulled back into a horse tail, his green eyes were kind, and when he smiled, as he did so now, it was hard not to return. He reminded her a bit of Fenarel, which brought a pang of regret to her heart. Where was he? Was he alive?

"You look hungry." Oliver pushed a package into her cage, after quickly scanning their surroundings, like he didn't want to be caught. Catriel stared at the package suspiciously, refusing to make any move toward it. For all she knew, the man wanted to poison her. "Go on, take it." Oliver nodded, cracking a half smile and pushing the package further toward her in the cage.

She really was hungry. The longer she looked at the package, pondering what was in it, the louder her stomach rumbled. She could not deny the truth. And she could hesitate no longer. She snatched up the package, undoing it quickly to find a perfectly square honey cake. She could not feign the surprise on her face.

"You think to win me over with honey cakes?" she asked, holding up the cake in her line of sight, before biting into it with delight.

Oliver laughed. "If I had known what an effect they would have on you, I would have brought more."

"Well," Catriel said through a mouthful of cake, "don't think this will work."

"Oh, I wouldn't dare think that." Oliver turned away from the cage and took a seat on the small bench to its side. He leaned back and closed his eyes, basking in the sun and letting silence overcome the small area in the courtyard of the keep.

Catriel finished the cake in no time, wiping her face of any crumbs. It was then that she remembered her friend Guion. She swallowed back a sob, thinking of his battered state. Where was he now? What had they done with him? He had a family to take care of. He didn't deserve what they did to him. Catriel wished she could have done something for him. But what? She couldn't even get herself out of this mess. She would just have to listen to him, do exactly as he had, and say nothing. He was brave, to endure what he did. She would have to be just as brave, or else risk everyone else. Only time would tell if she could live up to that kind of courage.

She glanced in the direction of the gates, trying not to think of all the bad things that had happened in the past day and a half. A few townspeople stood behind, watching her in curiosity. They had milled about ever since she'd been placed there. Some had jeered at her. Others just looked once and left. She didn't understand why she was such an attraction. She was... only a girl.

_A girl who killed one of their own. A girl who is the cause of all their troubles, or so it seems._

"Your brother is a mage," Catriel said in Oliver's direction. She had to turn her thoughts away from such dark things, fearful that she just might give in if they lingered in that direction for too long. She could not give in. She would not give in. If she had to engage Oliver in conversation to do that, then she would.

"My brother is many things," he replied without opening his eyes.

"So it is true," she said.

"I did not say that."

Catriel recalled the conversation she overheard between the two men in the wagon. She wondered why they spoke in such a way in front of her. Perhaps they had forgotten she was there. "You wish he was dead. You wish you were dead. Why?"

Oliver opened his eyes and rested them upon her before sighing. "Don't you ever say things you don't mean?"

Catriel put on an air of thoughtfulness. "Perhaps."

"I would guess that you do." Oliver laughed once in amusement. "You've gotten yourself into much trouble for someone so young."

"Not because of the things that come out of my mouth..." Catriel pouted as her words trailed off into the wind. Her mouth did often get her into trouble. It had only recently betrayed her by speaking against Fenarel to her mother.

Oliver gave her a teasing look. "Oh no? I was much like you when I was your age."

"Really?" Catriel puffed. "You were young once? I find that hard to believe."

Oliver stood up and came closer once more. The grin on his face made Catriel want to do the same, but she held back, though her cheeks twitched with the effort of restraint.

"You know, it is not as if I am old enough to be your grandfather, or your father for that matter. It was not so long ago that I was a little boy, getting into mischief any chance I could. I once stole a dagger from the boot of a Grey Warden."

"Is that supposed to impress me?" Catriel snorted in amusement. "The boots were probably empty of any feet."

"Oh no, they were full up with feet. Unfortunately, the woman caught me red handed. I gave the dagger back. But it was all a part of my master plan anyway."

"Your master plan?"

"Yes, I got the woman and the other Grey Wardens to train me. I grew up in Vigil's Keep, you see, the base of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden."

"I never heard of the place. I'm not even sure I should be amazed by the fact that you were trained by Grey Wardens. After all, you have only amounted to being a _lamalouis_." Catriel was surprised at the look of sorrow her words brought to the man's face. She'd meant to spite him, but now she was regretting them, though she wasn't sure why. He was a _shem_, after all.

_My mouth, it never ceases to betray me._

"Sometimes life throws things our way we cannot dodge..." Oliver looked at his feet, took a deep breath, and then gripped the bars of the cage tightly. "When I look at you in this cage, for instance, I remember my own time in a cage. I was probably the very same age you are now."

Catriel shifted closer to where Oliver stood, her curiosity getting the better of her, as it usually seemed to do. "You were caged?"

Oliver nodded. His eyes seemed not to be looking at anything in this world, but at something faraway, in the past, in his mind. "I can remember like it was yesterday the foul smell of the straw, feel the dampness of it seeping through my clothes, the darkness, and the sounds... the scratching, the heavy breathing of the beast in the next cage over."

"The beast?"

"A bronto."

"A bronto?" Catriel leaned back in disappointment. "Now I know you are telling me tall tales."

"It is all very true, girl. I would not make this up. I was in the deep roads, not far from Orzammar, with the Grey Wardens. There were some dwarves who were not happy with the way things turned out there during the Blight. They wanted revenge. The person they wanted to take it out on was not there and so they turned to the next best thing. A woman, like a mother to me, they took her captive, and me along with her."

"Where was your brother? Your real mother?"

"My brother... was not there. My parents, both were lost to the Blight." He continued to look inwardly, all smiles, all looks of amusement had left him. "Anyway, when they released me from the cage, it was only for their entertainment. They made me fight the bronto in a pit, my own Proving, with only a sword. Sometimes I still feel the ground shake beneath me, still see the beast pounding toward me, see its eyes lusting for blood. I still hear her muffled screams..." He paused, lost in his thoughts.

"You killed it then?" she asked after a long moment of silence. She was anxious to know the ending, despite all her misgivings about talking with a _shem_.

"I did." He let go of the bars and turned his gaze upon her. He seemed to have returned to the present.

"Why did you tell me this?"

"Sometimes it's easier to talk to someone if common ground is established."

"You want me to tell you everything?"

"Not everything. Only what you wish to tell. A name, for starters would be good."

"Why should I trust you? Because you told me a story?"

"Because I want to help you. There is always a way out."

She considered his words. It could be a trick. Or he could be genuine in his intentions. She didn't know what to believe. He'd given her hope. It was all she had at the moment. She couldn't let it go, just because he was human, could she? Not if she wanted a way out.

"Catriel," she whispered. He looked at her in confusion. "My name is Catriel."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Catriel." He held his hand out toward her. She squinted in hesitation. That was asking too much, surely he could see that... and then she quickly took it, though her hands were still bound in shackles, and let go just as fast.

"I don't know why you wish to help me. Perhaps I deserve to be executed."

"Why would you say that?"

"I did kill Soris."

He seemed to consider his words for a moment, scrutinizing her closely in what she could only describe as disbelief. "I doubt it was a cold blooded murder."

"He came at me, with a knife." She closed her eyes briefly, seeing again the moment seared into her memory. If Oliver could not let go of his own dark memories, what hope was there for her?

_What does it matter, anyway, if I am to die tomorrow?_

Oliver's voice cut into her thoughts. "There are times when we are forced to do things we do not wish to do."

"I wasn't supposed to be there..." She looked away. She did not want the shame in her eyes to be visible to this man. She didn't know why it mattered, but it did.

"Where were you supposed to be?" he asked.

"Home."

"Where is home?"

"In the mountains." Her hands went up to cover her mouth. She shouldn't have said that. She wanted to take it back, but Oliver had already heard.

"Fret not, Catriel, you can trust me." He placed a hand above his heart. "On my life, nothing bad will come of what you tell me."

Frustrated with herself, she leaned back further in the cage and let out a long puff of breath. How had the man gotten her to speak so freely? She didn't know if she could trust him. He was not only a _shem_, but a _lamalouis_ as well. They were notorious for caring only of themselves and their coin purses. She hoped she could trust him though, for she couldn't bear to bring more bad luck to her people.

"I prefer not to speak anymore," she said.

"As you wish. Just know that my intentions are good – you have an important person on your side."

"Who?" she asked in curiosity.

Oliver lifted a shoulder. "You will see, in time."

Catriel looked to the sky behind the keep's tower. Night was coming, slowly but surely. The count's ultimatum expired, when exactly, she wasn't sure, but knew it was on the morrow. Oliver's reassurances did nothing to ease her fears.

_I don't have much time... it is as much my enemy as those who keep me caged._


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Disclosures

Chapter Thirteen  
Disclosures

Tristan stood on the near side of Durendal, gently stroking the horse's long neck. His thoughts wandered from this world to the next. _What would you have me do, Brenna?_ He imagined her reply, firm and steadfast. _Do what is right_. That didn't help at all. How did one do what was right, when they didn't even know what was?

A sigh escaped Tristan's lips, reaching onto Durendal's neck. The horse shifted on his feet, sensing the agitation in Tristan. "Sorry, boy," he whispered, rubbing the back of the horse's ears in an attempt at reassurance. It seemed to do the trick. Durendal reached back with his head and nuzzled Tristan's shoulder. The horse's eyes spoke of an understanding beyond the need for words.

The stables had emptied, the boys who took care of the horses and cleaned the stalls gone off to have their own last meal of the day. Tristan was alone, at least for the moment, for he was waiting on Sam. He'd sent Magalie to fetch the younger man, all the while asking her to stand guard over the girl while he talked to Sam.

Durendal snorted and shifted his attention to the newcomer, Sam, walking in to the stables quietly, with a hint of reluctance. He stopped a few feet away and leaned against a post, watching Tristan with barely contained curiousity. Tristan wore no chainmail beneath his cape, a fact the other man noticed as he began to ready the horse with bridle.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked.

"I was hoping you would tell me." Tristan gave Sam a long, questioning look before he turned his attention back to Durendal. He placed the bit, a small metal bar, into the horse's mouth.

"They are in the mountains," Sam replied without a thought to what Tristan had been asking about in the first place.

It was just as Tristan thought. The rebels had made their home in the Frostbacks. He smiled at Sam, not too surprised that he had been able to get the girl to speak. He needed more information though. "Any more specifics?"

Sam shook his head.

Tristan arranged a length of leather straps around Durendal's nose, jaw and head. The horse stood perfectly still, seemingly eager for what the headstall being placed around him meant. "Let's hope it doesn't take all night to find it then."

Sam stood up from the post and walked closer to horse and man. "You're going to them, alone?"

Tristan paused in securing the headstall. "I have to. This..."

"Isn't right, I know." The anger in Sam's voice startled Durendal, who snorted and backed away slightly. "Just what do you plan on accomplishing by this?"

"I'm not sure yet." Tristan stroked Durendal's neck in an effort to calm the animal. When the horse seemed settled enough, he continued readying him, this time fixing the reins to the bit.

"Then you haven't really thought this through." Sam had lowered his voice, though the frustration was still audible.

"There hasn't been a lot of time. All I know is that I can't just sit by while they punish a girl in this way. I cannot have her blood on my hands."

"No one said it would be like this when we accepted this job."

"That doesn't excuse anything." Tristan sighed and rested his hands on the horse's neck. "What have I become? If I let this happen, I will be the monster they said I was."

"We won't let this happen." Sam moved forward to Durendal's off side. "You are not a monster. We are in this together. I can't just sit around either..."

Surprise overcame Tristan. Sam wanted to help him. Sam, who he thought hated him, resented him for turning their lives into… _this_, did not think any of that after all. Still, this was not something he could drag Sam into. He shouldn't. Ignoring the expectant gaze of Sam, Tristan fixed the saddle to Durendal and fastened it to the cinch. He climbed onto the horse and finally met Sam's gaze, giving him a shake of the head. "Keep an eye on her."

Sam grabbed the reins of the horse. "So I am to do nothing but play guard to a child?"

"It's not like that. It would look suspicious if we both left."

"And if someone asks where you are?"

"You're good at telling stories. Make something up." Tristan grinned. "Just don't make me look a fool, whatever you say."

Sam let go of the reins. His expression changed, softened even. "I'm sorry about what I said to you yesterday. I didn't mean any of it."

"I'm sorry, too." Tristan felt a stab of guilt. He saw the little boy Sam had been, before he'd insisted everyone call him Sam and not Sammy. The hopes and dreams that little boy had, crushed by one simple act of goodness. Despite his wayward ways, there was still some of that good left in the man he'd become.

_What is the point of doing good things, if everything turns to shit in the end? _But he had no time to ponder philosophically. He had something to do, and if it turned to shit in the end, well, he wouldn't be surprised. "Now, my horse is in need of some exercise."

"I could go with you..." Sam tried one more time. It was a vain attempt. There would be no change of mind from Tristan over this matter.

"Stay here and watch over the girl."

Sam sighed, but resigned himself to the duty. "Her name is Catriel."

"Catriel," Tristan repeated, storing the name in his memory. He turned to Sam one last time. "You're the only one I can trust. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Safe journey," Sam nodded and backed out of the way of the horse, though it didn't look to Tristan like Sam believed the journey would be anything but safe. Only time would tell.

Tristan squeezed his legs, giving Durendal the signal to move forward. The horse eagerly walked ahead. It was when he reached the threshold of the stables and the outside that he heard Sam's anxious shout.

"Wait – you forgot your sword!"

Tristan ignored the shout and set Durendal to a trot towards the gates of the city. He couldn't do this armed. If that meant placing his life in peril, then so be it. There was more than his life at stake in this.

…

Durendal made good time, set at a pace not too strenuous yet not so slow that morning would be upon them before they reached the mountains. In fact, the Frostback Mountains loomed ahead, a large blotch of shadow reaching into the dark blue sky. The sun had already started its descent when he left Jader and now it had disappeared, surrendering to the moon and stars.

The sounds of the night – buzzing insects, noisy frogs, hooting owls, the rustling of leaves in the light wind – reduced the steps of the horse to a mere whisper among a crowd of noisy spectators. Tristan wanted to be heard. He wanted to be seen. He needed to, otherwise he might search for the rebels for years. The Frostback Mountains were a range of peaks that extended far to the south, jutting higher into the sky the further south they went, all the way into the uncharted territories, perhaps even beyond. He was unaccustomed to seeing the range from this direction, but at the same time, the hilly peaks were familiar to him, having gone down to Orzammar in a similar area.

The deeper horse and man travelled through the small forest leading up to the mountains, the more the ground rose into hilly terrain, and the more Tristan grew anxious.

Just what was he doing? What were his plans? Sam was right, he hadn't thought this through. The rebels, if he did find them, might not even give him a chance to speak. They might kill him on the spot. But it was a chance he had to take. The girl's life may depend on this brash decision. Countless other lives as well.

Durendal continued through the trees, to a path. A goat, perhaps a deer path? Or a path used by rebels? The horse trotted up the steep, twisting climb, twitching his ears back every now and then, listening to the night. They were high up now, ascending the mountain. Evergreen trees grew tall here, making the mountain seem even higher than it really was.

As Durendal labored up the mountainside, Tristan turned his gaze upwards, to the canopy above. A bird's wings could be heard flapping through the night, disturbed by what, Tristan couldn't know.

"I am here, unarmed," he shouted, his voice echoing faintly through the night. Shadows flickered through the canopy. More birds? Twigs snapped, Durendal halted, snorted in anxiousness. "I come in peace."

Footsteps pounded the path ahead. Shadows ran across from side to side. Durendal backed away at the sounds, at the apparitions. Tristan didn't blame the horse. He might run away too, if things weren't so dire. He took his hands off the reins and held them to the side.

"I am alone. I am unarmed," he repeated.

A crunching of leaves to the left and Tristan held on for dear life as Durendal reared back. He grabbed a hold of the reins once more and attempted to control the horse. A pat on the neck calmed the horse, but Tristan couldn't say the same for himself, for out of the trees and into the moonlight came an elven woman with hair as crimson as the color of his cape, pointing an arrow straight at his head, her arm straining, and ready to fire.

"I come in peace," Tristan stated once more.

"Words that are meaningless when they come out of the mouth of someone such as you, mercenary." The woman pulled her bowstring back. Tristan felt a strange sort of calm come over him. He met the woman's eyes and prepared for what was to come.

It would not be death, at least not at that moment.

"Varia, wait!" A shout from behind and a sharp shove backward made the woman named Varia miss her target. The arrow whizzed above into the trees and landed far out of harm's way. A familiar elven man appeared in front of her, watching Tristan atop Durendal.

Tristan dismounted, thinking it better to meet them at the same level than from atop a mount. He inclined his head toward the elven man, recognizing him as the dark haired warrior he fought on the battlefield. Even in the moonlight, Tristan could see the bruise he'd given the man, the broken nose, set back into place but forever marred with a bump. "I thank you."

The elven man grunted. "Do not thank me. Now that I see you more clearly, I wish I had let Varia fire her arrow."

"You should have," Varia agreed, sending an angered look toward the warrior before resting it onto Tristan.

"But," the warrior growled, "you have been spared from death once before. This has confused me ever since."

Tristan thought back to the battle the day before. The warrior woman, his life in her hands, about to send him to the afterlife, and then by some miracle, turning around and fleeing. "Your leader?" he asked, taking a chance. It was as much a puzzle to him as it was to the warrior.

The warrior narrowed his eyes in Tristan's direction, studying him, contemplating answering. And then he nodded. "Yes."

"Take me to her," Tristan said with more bravado than he actually possessed at the moment. The warrior fingered the hilt of a shiny, sharp sword, and Varia's hand hovered as close to her quiver as would be considered honorable against an unarmed. Tristan's hands were empty. He had no sword at his back. The only thing he possessed to defend himself was magic, but they didn't know that, and he did not want to show that card, not unless he had to.

"Who are you that you would ask such a thing so brashly and expect us to grovel at your feet like some chastened flat ears?" the warrior asked.

"I am Bernard." Tristan could not suppress a grin. _Brash_ was a word rarely used to describe him and more suited to his blood brother.

"You are no Orlesian, but you fight for them," Varia pointed out with disgust.

"You are right and you are wrong. I am Ferelden born and I do not fight for the Orlesians."

"Could've fooled me." Varia snickered.

The warrior pulled her away. "We must discuss this. Do not move."

"I would not dare." A hint of impatience entered into his voice. The elves did not notice or did not care as they walked a few feet away and spoke in lowered voices, all the while keeping an eye out on Tristan. After what seemed like a lengthy argument between the two, the warrior returned to Tristan.

"My name is Thorn. I will take you to our leader, but try anything funny, and I will spill your guts all over my sword."

…

He followed Thorn, after reluctantly leaving a frazzled Durendal with Varia. To his surprise, Thorn led him inside the bowels of the mountain, through a winding tunnel. The utter darkness was swallowed up by the torch flame, only to reemerge behind them. How deep did this cavern go? He felt a stirring in his blood, a faint, distant whisper. The darkspawn were below him. Far below. So far as to be harmless. But that did not calm his frayed nerves.

The cavern's tunnel seemed to go on forever, yet it turned out to be not so far in as he first thought. More light was visible at last, and when they turned a corner, they came into a large circular cavern. A tiny gathering of rebels sat on wooden benches, looking exhausted. An old elven woman tended to the shoulder wound of a woman. When Tristan got closer, he realized it was her – the warrior woman he battled against the day before. Magalie must have caught her with a bolt from her crossbow. Sitting to her side was another familiar, figure at least, for he had never really seen their faces, hidden behind masks as they were. But the long brown hair of the woman, and the blonde hair of the younger man at her side were recognizable. The younger man also favored his side, as hard as he tried to conceal his pain, indicating to Tristan this was the elf he had spared. The elf looked away from the women, cowed, like he had just received a stern lecture.

"So this is the mighty rebel force?" Tristan commented at the sight before him. It was a simple observation more meant for himself than anything and not as an insult, but the warrior behind him must have heard and took it for what it was not.

Thorn pushed him forward roughly and forced him to take a seat in front of the warrior woman.

She pushed away the old woman's hands. "Lethra, please, I am fine. You may stop tending to me now."

The old woman did as she was told, though not after clicking her tongue a few times. She took a seat and studied Tristan. A smile crept slowly over her face and something like recognition passed through her old eyes. Tristan looked away from the excitable old lady, wondering just what she saw in him and leaving him with a feeling of unease.

"Have you come to mock us?" the recently humbled elf at the side snapped. He must have recognized Tristan, for he seethed with anger.

Tristan shook his head respectfully. "I have something important to say. It was regrettable what happened…"

"Pfft, a mercenary with a heart. Why should we trust him? Why do we even converse with him?" The elf's eyes darted between Tristan and his leader. "He nearly killed us all. He led the mercenary swine against us."

Tristan couldn't help but chuckle as he was reminded of someone in his past. "And yet here you stand, living and breathing. I seem to recall your neck at the mercy of my blades."

"One of them my own," the elf snorted. "You're not just a mercenary but a thief as well."

Tristan rubbed his temple. Any amusement left from the sudden memory of his past left in a puff of impatience. He didn't have time for this.

"I assure you Fenarel, he is more than just a simple mercenary." The leader of the rebels frowned at the elf named Fenarel. "And he is one of us. Do show some respect."

"Have you been injured in the head as well?" Fenarel asked his leader in disbelief.

"Leave us," she commanded. Thorn looked ready to protest, watching Tristan with distrust, but she waved his concern away, a slight grimace of pain crossing her face as she moved her wounded shoulder in the process. "I will be fine."

Lethra, helped up by Thorn, plastered her face with a curious smile, all the while never taking her eyes off of Tristan. It made him uncomfortable, like the commandant had, like Magalie had, but without ever saying anything at all. It was as if she knew the truth of him. After much grumbling from Fenarel, the cavern emptied of all but him and the leader of the rebels. He turned his attention to her, finding that beneath the proud exterior, there was something else; fear, perhaps.

"Don't presume to know me," Tristan said. It bothered him that these rebels thought they knew him. And it worried him a little, too.

"Why do you think it is I didn't end you when I had the chance?" she asked with genuine curiousity.

"I don't presume to know you either. What was running through your mind was your own thoughts, then and now."

She remained thoughtful for a moment, her grey eyes fixed on him studiously. "Hero."

Tristan's heart skipped a beat. An image, a life, _a lie_, he built up through all these years threatened to crumble to pieces. He couldn't let it happen. "I've never heard of a hero named Bernard."

"Neither have I." She was inquisitive without being imposing. She knew more than she let on. She leaned forward, cracking a small, knowing smile. "But, that is not your real name, is it?"

He didn't turn his gaze from her. She might be on to him, but he had other things to speak of. "I have not come here to trade stories. Who I am or am not is without importance."

A small but hearty laugh escaped her lips. "Your neck would disagree."

"So you spared me because of who you think I am?"

"No. I spared you because of who I know you are. Let's not dance around this fact any longer. You are Tristan Amell, Hero of Ferelden, but more importantly to me, son of Siofra and brother to Ronan."

He sent a curious look toward her. He never thought to hear again his name, his mother's name, nor even his brother's in this life. She knew him, somehow. He couldn't deny the truth to her, but he did not have to admit it. _But…_ "Who are you?"

"I am Eirlys."

The name meant something to him. He knew it in his heart. He'd heard it on the battlefield the day before, but thought nothing more of it later. Yet when he searched his memory, the memory of a man long thought departed, something else struggled to come to light. _Eirlys…_ It meant something. He just could not put a finger to what.

"You recognize my name?" she asked almost hopefully after a thoughtful moment.

"I think I do…" and then it all came back to him, that horrible night when Brenna was killed. He ran all night after the murderers, poisoned though he was by an arrow. A blizzard came, morning came, and he could run no longer. He collapsed onto the ground, covered by the snow. Somehow, he awakened and found himself in his mother's village. _You know how…_ "You are the one and the same Eirlys that plucked me out of the snow?"

Eirlys nodded, pleased that he finally remembered. "I am."

"I never got the chance to thank you."

Eirlys took a deep breath and briefly looked away in shame. "I almost did nothing."

"But you did, and I am grateful."

Eirlys inclined her head in reply, deflecting any praise for what she had done. She looked worn and weary, like her mind was not completely in the moment. "Now that we have established the truths of who we are, what are your reasons for coming here? Surely not to exchange… pleasantries. As you can see, most of the rebels have moved on to safer pastures, for the moment at least."

So that explained the empty cavern. "The girl – Catriel."

"My daughter," it was said so softly Tristan almost did not hear. But the look on Eirlys' face would have given it away anyway. It was pained, guilt-lined; a look Tristan had worn himself many times in the past. "I was hoping she had just decided not to come home, that she was only angry for being left out."

So, Eirlys did not even know that Catriel had been taken. He contemplated what he should say before he was prompted by the hopeful look to correct Eirlys' assumption. It would be cruel to let her think all was well for one second longer.

"She has been taken to Jader, is being held there by the count. They wish her to betray your people or face…" He couldn't bring himself to say the rest. He felt dirty. His hands were stained with this horrible deed. How did one tell a mother their child would in all probability die?

"Face what?" Eirlys sought out his eyes and held them. "Tell me. Do not mince words for my sake. I am stronger than I look at the moment."

"I'm afraid she won't be held captive for much longer. The Orlesians wish to execute her tomorrow at mid-sun."

Eirlys dropped her eyes to the ground, visibly deflating at the reality that faced her daughter. "I didn't think… they would kill a child? Would that I could trade places with her, I would do so in a heartbeat."

Tristan felt his heart breaking for the woman. His thoughts turned to his own mother, tucked far away in a forest. Yet there was something he still could not understand. "What is your purpose? Why would you lead your people onto a path of waste and destruction? Your daughter even…"

Her eyes flashed in a quick flare of anger before it dissolved into a controllable calm. "I do not wish to lay waste to anything. I seek only to reclaim what once belonged to my people. It is a shame that some in my company are too hotheaded to think of consequences. I sought only to harass the Orlesians, to disrupt their trade, destroy their precious roads if need be. I made a lot of progress with the city kin, to gain their support, to gain their eyes and their ears. But all that was for naught because I could not be the leader I need to be. And now my daughter will pay for it all." Eirlys closed her eyes in a grimace of guilt and pain and sighed. "Someone once named me a dreamer. They told me to be careful what I wished for. The gods have a funny way of granting these wishes."

_The gods, the Maker, the powers that be – they certainly all have a twisted sense of humour._ Tristan found himself nodding in agreement with the leader of the rebels. Her tactics were sound, even if her end goal was questionable. It was rather unfortunate that she could not control her followers, but even so, he saw in her a great determination and a wisdom that he'd seen in few so called leaders.

"The Orlesians go too far." He reached for her hand. "I would free her, but I need your help."

Eirlys lifted her gaze to him once more. That same admirable determination had replaced the grimace of pain and guilt. "It seems the gods stayed my hand for a reason. You are an honourable man that you would put yourself at risk for my daughter even before knowing who her father is."

Tristan didn't understand her point, if she was even making a point. "The identity of her father would not stop me from doing what is right."

"I only meant…" Eirlys sighed and then pushed away his hand. "You truly are a hero to offer aid without the incentive of a blood tie."

Now Tristan was really confused. "Blood tie?"

"Catriel is your niece."


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Orlesian Justice

Chapter Fourteen  
Orlesian Justice

"It is time, sweet child."

The chantry mother's voice drifted into the silence between Catriel's ears, reaching into her dark, clouded mind. She must have finally dozed off after a night of restless wakefulness and awakened now, for she would never in a thousand years dream of Mother Bramimonde.

"Sister Aude and I are here to take you away."

On second thought, she wished this were a dream. The reality of the day, the threats of the _shems_ were too much to bear. The waking world proved to be more of a nightmare than any dream she'd ever recalled.

"We will listen to any words you wish to speak." Mother Bramimonde's voice was soft, kind, and faintly maternal. But Catriel would not be fooled into betrayal.

She kept her back to the chantry mother. Her head rested against a single bar of her cage. She shivered uncontrollably, though it was warm outside. Gripping a bar in each hand, she was determined never to let go. With eyes squeezed shut, she hoped in vain that sheer will alone would change the outcome of the day.

The locks of the cage rattled, clicked open. Where determination once rested beneath her breast, panic took over, seizing her heart in a painful twist as the cage creaked open.

"I didn't mean to do it," she whispered feebly, her breath hard to come by.

A soft hand came to rest over one of her own. "There is yet still time to avoid all this. The count has promised to let you go if you give him what he wants."

Betray her people, the rebels in the mountains, their eyes and ears in the cities? She could ruin countless lives with a few simple words and gain her freedom. She was not worth it. Her life was not more important than the lives of the others. "I can't," she sobbed.

"Then may the Maker have mercy on your soul."

Mother Bramimonde's hand left her own. The cage tilted backwards. Hands reached in, pulled her legs. Her grip around the bars tightened. She would not let go. They would have to wrench her free. And that they did.

Rough, callused hands pried free her own from the bars of her cage and in an instant she was on level ground. She could not stand straight for the violent shaking of her legs.

At last Catriel opened her eyes to the day – perhaps for the last time – and saw the looks of pity from Mother Bramimonde and Sister Aude behind her.

There was no pity from her guards. They shoved her forward, forcing her to walk. She struggled to breathe, to make sense of what was happening. She momentarily caught a glimpse of her guard's faces. Neither of them were Oliver. He must have left when she'd fallen into slumber. He'd promised her someone important was in her corner. He'd been her only friend, a word loosely used of course, since she'd been locked up. She should have known better than to trust a _shem_.

Still, she couldn't help but think of how much easier things would have been to bear were it he leading her to her destiny and not these awful oafs. She couldn't even find it in herself to rage against Mother Bramimonde for daring to bring her Maker into this, for the guards' rough treatment of her, for Oliver breaking his promise. She tried to gather her swirling thoughts into something coherent, but nothing would come.

A chorus of cheers erupted from somewhere outside the courtyard of the keep. She looked to Mother Bramimonde in confusion as they came to a stop before a gate.

"What were the cheers for?" Catriel managed to ask between sucking breaths.

"A traitor's execution." Mother Bramimonde looked away in sadness before motioning to the guards to follow out the gates. "We will part the crowd in front of you."

Catriel stumbled onto her knees, knowing in her heart whom it was that just met their end, before the guards wrenched her up once more in between them.

_Guion_. A cry from somewhere deep inside of her broke free. "No…"

"_Allez-y, maudite sauvage_." The guard on her right pushed her forward. Her traitorous legs lengthened in the wrong direction, toward the execution, spurred on by the poke of a spear end into her back. She glared over her shoulder at the pock-faced guard.

_By Elgar'nan's fury, I swear this will not go unpunished…_

"_Enwaille, on n'a pas toute la journée._" The guard poked her again and Catriel decided she would concur, only because it would make this dreadful day end the sooner.

_End... this is my end._

She nearly erupted into a volcano of tears as she followed the backs of the chantry sisters, pressed in between the rough hands of the guards. The crowd thickened, parted in two at the insistence of their holy women, so that Catriel felt like she was being swallowed by a horde as they came together behind her. She boldly looked up once to see the eyes of the strangers, cold and hungry for justice to be done.

"Knife-ear," someone cried out as she passed.

A rock slammed against the armour of one her guards, creating a loud _ding_ noise. The guard swore and knocked back the onlookers with the butt of his spear, pulling out his sword from his sheathe in further warning.

_That was meant for my head..._ She lowered her gaze further, refusing to meet the eyes of the hostile crowd, wishing to be invisible.

"The Dread Wolf take you!" Another shout rose above the others. Catriel sucked in her breath at the curse. Who would wish such a thing on one of their own? Fenarel was right; the city elves were loyal only unto themselves.

_How long is this walk? How long before I close my eyes to this world for good?_ She couldn't bear to be paraded about. It brought shame to her heart. Her mother would surely disown her for this folly. _I have brought shame upon my ancestors..._

She blocked out her surroundings. The faces in the crowd became a blur. Their expressions were indecipherable. She would not get any pity from them. She didn't want it anyway. The noise was reduced to a faraway sound. She felt almost like she was floating in a dream.

But it wasn't a dream. It was her reality.

After walking for what seemed like an endless trek through a never ending forest, the chantry women stopped before a raised wooden platform, a stage where her last performance in this life would take place. Catriel took a deep breath. She would make it count. She would make her mother proud. It was only right. It was only just that she die for her crime, a crime that ignited the flame that brought everyone here.

That flame would be snuffed out today, or perhaps, like the _lamalouis_ had stated in her defence, it would billow into an inferno, spreading out over the land, bringing her people closer to open rebellion than ever before. _That_,Catriel thought, _is something surely worth dying for..._

The guards forced her up the creaky stairs. Any resolve, any courage that she had built up within herself quickly fled as she mounted the top of the platform. The sight she saw would burn in her memory forever. It was proof of the earlier cheers, a traitor's head on a spike; Guion's head on a spike.

"_O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places_."

Catriel fell to the ground again, scraping her knees against the wooden planks of the platform. Her eyes were riveted to Guion's, opened wide, the features of his face etched with permanent sorrow. Beyond the ghastly sight, servants dragged his body away, leaving a trail of bright red blood escaping from the open hole of his neck.

"_O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. __Sing only the words You place in my throat_."

_What is happening? Why is this happening?_ She couldn't stand up. She didn't want to. Nothing made sense anymore. She should never have disobeyed her mother. She should have listened to Fenarel.

"_My Maker, know my heart. Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride_."

A large man, masked in black, blocked her view of Guion's head. He pulled her up by her hands and dragged her to a spot beneath the gallows. He was the executioner, she supposed. She didn't really care. She was to be hanged, she realized as a rope was placed around her neck. She felt the floor beneath her shake. It was unsteady, a trapdoor that would be pulled away, ending her sorry life.

"_My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval_."

Catriel's gaze found the sky. Her chest tightened further as she watched vultures soaring overhead, waiting for their chance to get at Guion's remains. To get at her own remains.

"_O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your glory. And let the world once more see Your favor_."

The executioner tightened the noose. It scraped against her neck, the fibers of it at once itchy and painful. Her breath was constricted in her throat, but enough passed that she still breathed life – for a few minutes longer anyway.

"_For You are the fire at the heart of the world. And comfort is only Yours to give._"

Mother Bramimonde's chanting thankfully came to an end. A hush overcame the crowd. So this was it. Catriel scanned the crowd. The faces were hazy for tears had welled up in her lower lids. She couldn't tell if they pitied her or were just glad it was her and not them facing death.

Someone in the front began to ramble in Dalish. Catriel's heart skipped a beat. Why would that be? But she realized that it was only a prayer for the dead, not unlike Mother Bramimonde's earlier chants. She shook so much that the executioner had to hold her up otherwise she would ruin the whole spectacle of execution by falling forward of her own will and choking herself to death before the trapdoor could ever be opened.

_I don't want the gods. I don't want the Maker. I want only my mother…_

Catriel saw her then. Her long brown hair gathered together in a braid, watching her with sad, grey eyes from deep within the thronging crowd. And a smile, a smile which mangled her mother's _vallaslin_, a smile which begged for Catriel to gather her courage, to grasp onto hope.

"_Mamae_," she choked out in a whisper.

"You're all the same," the executioner grumbled, hearing Catriel's gasp. "You all beg for your mothers in the end."

The apparition of her mother was gone in an instant and replaced by darkness. A burlap sack was placed over her head, the executioner removing her vision of this world before death ever could, a final humiliation by the _shems_. It was not fair, but if Catriel had learned anything in this short life lived, it was that life was not fair.

_So… this is the end… in darkness I entered this world, in darkness I shall leave it…_

* * *

**Mother Bramimonde's chant written by BioWare. Thank you.**

Translations:

Allez-y, maudite sauvage. = Go, damn savage.

Enwaille, on n'a pas toute la journée_._ = Hurry up, we don't have all day.

...

_Now you see what my very short story Last Day was all about. ;) -artemiskat_


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Honour Regained

Chapter Fifteen  
Honour Regained

The girl – Catriel – showed a determined proudness in the face of death, even if she struggled to stand straight on her own, to hold back tears. It was admirable and sad. Very sad.

Tristan studied her from just below the platform. It was hard to tell from this far if she favoured Ronan in appearance. She did have the same reddish brown hair color, but then again, Eirlys did so too, though in a slightly browner shade than her daughter. The straight, noble nose, the full pouty mouth, the small narrow eyes, they could have been inherited from his brother.

_Sowing your wild oats long before Anwen, did you brother?_

It had been so long since he'd seen him, though, that his blood brother was nothing more than a ghost in his mind, his features blurred by time. As the executioner dragged the girl to stand beneath the gallows, Tristan concluded that Eirlys _could_ be telling the truth about the girl's parentage. But she could also be lying, like many a desperate woman. In the end, it didn't matter to Tristan. No child deserved to be treated in such a way and blood or not, he would do something about it.

A blurry image of his son by Morrigan entered into his mind then. He didn't even know the boy's name. With the exception of a glimpse from a demon in the Fade, most likely a cruel lie, Tristan didn't even really know what he looked like. He'd never met his son.

_Whatever he looks like, wherever he is, he is a boy no longer. He is a young man and I've missed out on his whole life. I wonder, did my father feel this same emptiness beneath his breast for such a loss? _Tristan shook his head out of the past. There was a time and place for these sorts of wonderments, and now was definitely not one of them. He chuckled at his foolishness.

A woman next to him snorted. He turned his gaze her way and was met with a look of complete disgust. "_Quelle honte!_ Shame on you man, that you would laugh at the death of a child."

"And why are you here, _madame_?"

"Well... I never!" Offended, the woman turned away from Tristan's accusing glare.

_She won't die, if everything falls into place. _He turned his attention back to the top of the platform. The executioner was tightening the noose around Catriel's neck. It was not supposed to get this far. Something must be wrong. A feeling of dread passed through plans, they must have gone wrong somewhere.

After truths had been settled between Eirlys and himself, they had set into motion a plan to free Catriel. It would take a lot of daring and a lot of courage, but it could be done. It had to be done.

He'd told her of the secret way to get into the city – the grate in the wall and the underwater passage beneath it. When he divulged that, he wasn't sure how useful it would be for getting them inside, for sentries would no doubt line the walls of Jader, able to see the rebels or any invading force miles away. Eirlys had pointed this out to him. Much to his surprise, she'd walked within these walls countless times before, but only on her own. He replied that he would come up with something. The rebels needed only show up.

And so on the long ride home, he wracked his brain for a way to get the rebels into the city. He wasn't sure how many Catriel would bring along. He wasn't sure if this was a good idea. He could, in spite of everything, be starting the rebellion – the war – he was trying so hard to avoid. But saving the girl was the right thing to do. It was the honorable thing to do.

In the end, he came to the conclusion that he would convince Commandant Duplessis to get the Crimson Knights to man the walls during the execution. After all, the people of Jader, sentries and guards included, would not want to miss such a spectacle. _And, it would put more coin in our pockets as well_, he'd said to the commandant. Coin was all the word he needed to say, for with that the commandant agreed, praising Tristan for his cunning, for being worthy of his typically roguish Ferelden ancestors. Ignoring the seething rage that built up within him at those comments, Tristan had volunteered to take the duty, as the commandant was invited to witness the whole thing in the company of the noble count and the greedy head of the merchants association.

The only thing was, Tristan "forgot" to assign the duty and now no one walked the walls of Jader. That was how it was supposed to be.

But he couldn't help feeling that something was wrong as the executioner covered Catriel's head with a sack. It was not supposed to get this far, this close to happening.

He frantically searched the crowd for any signs. Had the rebels made it within? Were they now walking among the crowd? Or had they never even reached the square, found and confronted perhaps by a conspicuously missing chevalier contingent?

Tristan need not have worried himself so, for a unanimous shout of "_Revas!_" rang out from among the crowd. The rebels were there, shedding their cloaks and hoods and shoving their way through the crowd, their weapons raised high up in the air in anger, and stirring up a frenzy among the crowd. Screams joined in the chorus and the crowd scattered in fear. The rebels did not even bother with masks this day.

_What have I unleashed?_

Even so, he breathed a sigh of relief. Eirlys had promised no blood would be shed, that the rebels would provide just a simple distraction, but as always seemed to be the case, good intentions quickly turned to mud. She was in control of her rebels no more than he was of the Crimson Knights or of the city guards lined about the square. The two sides clashed in a violent clatter of steel.

He watched as his brothers in arms were pushed back, the rebels frothing at the mouth to avenge their defeat two days ago, to avenge the beheading of their comrade they were too late to save, and to prevent their leader's daughter from hanging from the noose. For a moment, he was torn about what to do. Betray his brothers or let his alleged blood die? The executioner had stepped back from Catriel, looking for confirmation from someone above his rank to tell him what to do. It was the moment Tristan had to step in. He turned his head to his "brothers", who desperately fought the onslaught of the rebels.

_There are barrels of blood on their hands, the lot of them._

A feeling of disgust overcame him. For them. For himself. He turned his gaze to his hands.

_There is blood on my hands, invisible though it is, it is there._

And then he knew what to do. His mind was made up in that moment. There would not be another stain on his hands. Sam was already waiting outside the city. He owed no loyalty to the Crimson Knights. He fought with them for years, but none had ever given him a second thought until he was promoted to deputy.

_Except Magalie_. But she was nowhere to be seen, and he thanked the Maker for that. He couldn't stand having to confront her. There was no telling what would transpire if that happened. He might have to kill her and he couldn't bear that.

His mind made up, he pushed his way through a trapped part of the mob at the edge of the execution platform, excusing himself and apologizing every step of the way. He hoped none of them got hurt, even if they had cried out for the blood of a girl child. He climbed upon the platform, relieved that the executioner still bore a look of confusion, wiping the back of his neck of sweat as he held Catriel up with one hand.

"You there, deputy…" the guard shouted and then stopped mid-sentence as Tristan pulled out his sword.

"Yes, I am Deputy Bernard." He reached the girl, took hold of the noose, and cut it free from the gallows. The executioner gulped back a horrified protest when he met Tristan's commanding look. "There are new orders. We're taking the prisoner to Halamshiral."

Tristan gripped Catriel by the arm. She pulled away, frightened, but Tristan held steady.

"The count gave these orders?" the executioner asked.

"He did," Tristan replied. As he turned away from the man, he saw the look of relief wash over his face. No doubt he was happy to be rid of his problem. He quickly scrambled away from the fight in the square.

Tristan made to do the same, eager to get away from Jader, but when he moved forward, Catriel stubbornly stood her ground, like a tree rooted. "Don't make me carry you. You must trust me."

Trumpets blared through the city as an alarm was finally raised. Time was precious now. They had to get away. The chevaliers might show up now and that was not a good thing at all.

"What is going on?" she asked, her voice hoarse from the rope around her neck.

Tristan glimpsed once more at the rebels. They were beginning to pull back, to lead the guards, the Crimson Knights on a chase through the city. He searched for the one face he knew. When he found her, it was as if Eirlys knew his gaze rested on her, for she quickly blocked a swing and knocked a guard to the ground. Then she met his gaze, and with a single tear in her eye, nodded her head before returning to the fight.

"Tell me!" Catriel shouted, though it came out barely above a whisper. She attempted to wriggle free of his grip.

He couldn't get her out of the city if she protested every step of the way. Hooves pounded in the distance. The chevaliers were nearing the square. They had to leave. It was now or never. "I'm sorry," he said before he reached far into his mind, into the Fade even for a long lost, barely used spell. He put her to sleep.

Catriel slumped instantly to the ground. He gathered her up and tossed her over his shoulder, small thing that she was, she would not be much of a burden to carry, and set off down a narrow street. It was empty now, the frightened citizens having fled into their homes at the appearance of the Masked Rebels they never thought to see within their city.

He hurried down the poor, unclean street, his footsteps kicking up a cloud of dust behind him, and carefully holding onto Catriel by her legs while her arms and head flopped against his back. The chevaliers were near, the sound of their horses' footfalls getting louder and louder while the din of battle slowly faded. Yet he could not see the chevaliers anywhere.

He reached a corner, fully intending to round it, when he dissolved back into an alcove. A number of chevaliers, unable to discern for it was too great and they galloped too fast, pounded around the corner, past Tristan and Catriel, hidden in the relative safety of the alcove. He lowered his eyes and held his breath as he waited for them to pass, ignoring the dust that flurried into his face.

When he thought it safe, when he thought all had passed, Tristan removed himself from the alcove and stepped back into the street, shifting Catriel slightly in his arms. He was mistaken, not all had passed. But the ones that remained had turned back. The chevaliers, two of them at least, were heading in the opposite direction from the fight. Squinting at their fleeing backs, Tristan recognized them: Ser Thierry and Ser Valdebrun.

_Cowards_.

He was so riveted to the backs of the chevaliers, so baffled by the sight, wondering what evil plans the vile man and his spineless follower were up to, that he didn't notice the contingent march up behind him.

"Bernard!" the commandant spotted him first. "What the fuck is going on?"

_By the Maker, I am caught red handed. This cannot end well._

"Can't you see," the count said from behind, pushing forward to stand at the commandant's side. His condescendence stifled the air. "He has betrayed us. He took the prisoner from the noose. Now he runs with her."

"Betrayal?" The commandant looked disbelieving of the count's theory. Tristan did nothing to convince him otherwise, for it was the truth.

"Don't you remember how he spoke against us? Against _me_." The count snapped his fingers. "Guards, arrest this man. He is one of them. Look at those savage tattoos on his face. He let the rebels into the city!"

The guards rushed forward to surround Tristan. All openings were closed. There was only one way out. He sheathed his sword, much to the surprise of everyone around, though the commandant still reeled from the figurative stab in the back he'd dealt him.

"Surrendering so easily?" The count laughed. "How typical of a Fereldan."

Tristan couldn't suppress his own laugh. It grew and grew in perfect madness until it surpassed the count's. Sensing something amiss, Nevelon stopped laughing and regarded Tristan like he was some crazed fool foaming at the mouth.

"This isn't surrender," Tristan said, abruptly halting his laughter.

The guards inched toward Tristan slowly, wary of the madness in his eyes. Their own eyes seemed to ask a question: who was this man, this deputy of the Crimson Knights? Tristan would show them, with pleasure.

It gathered in his core, spreading out through his limbs, and burst forth from his hands – a wave of magic, blasting through the guards, the count, and the commandant, knocking them all to the ground.

"_Menteur!_ You fucking liar!" The commandant pulled himself up from the ground and pointed an accusing finger at Tristan. Now that his shock was gone, his face turned into a red rage directed at Tristan. He didn't really blame the man, but there were more important things than him. "There is nothing more in this world I hate than liars. You will regret this, Ferelden cur!"

"I am sorry to inform you, but I will not regret this. Even should I die within the hour, I will die happy knowing I did what I could to stop this injustice you Orlesians have the gall to name as justice."

"You act like you have the heart of a lion, but you are nothing but a pussy cat." Commandant Duplessis took one step toward Tristan, holding back the rest of the guards with a halting hand. "You are one of us, whoever the hell you are, and you will always be an honourless sack of shit."

Tristan grew a fireball in his hand, warning the guards from surrounding him once more. The mana flowing through him felt exhilarating. "No, you are wrong commandant. Honour can be regained. It is you who will always be without it if you continue in these ways."

The commandant spat onto the ground. "I will find you. Don't doubt that. This is a promise, Fereldan."

Tristan gave the commandant a long, dark, and challenging look that said, _find me if you dare_, and then he went over to the count, shaking in his breeches now, and lifted him up roughly. With his free hand, Tristan dragged him forward.

"How dare he touch a man of noble birth! He is but a peasant born of mud and dirt!" the seneschal's protest was ignored by Tristan. "Will no one do anything?"

He needed a way out of the city, now that the alarm had been sounded, there would surely be guards manning the walls. The glimpse of Ser Thierry's back atop a galloping horse unsettled him also. The chevalier would be at the gates. He knew it in his heart. The count was his insurance.

"Move!" he said loudly by the count's ear. The sniveling, cowardly noble nodded slowly and then did as Tristan said. The count's early show of bravado was quickly forgotten at the appearance of magic. He made signs of protection as Tristan pushed him down the street that led toward the gates, all the while glancing back at the guards and the commandant he had betrayed.

They would not follow, as long as they wanted their count alive. Honorless men as they were, however, there were no guarantees. And so he rushed to the gates without pause, forcing the count at a hasty pace the noble could barely keep up with. Catriel was growing heavy atop his shoulder, but he couldn't stop now. She was his burden to carry, a choice he could not turn back on now.

Before he knew it, the gates were in his view. All looked calm, until he turned his gaze to ground level. Ser Thierry was there, like he knew he would be. The chevalier glared at him indignantly, his sword out and ready to strike Tristan down. He was on foot, flanked by Ser Valdebrun and a couple of guards. Everyone but Ser Thierry hesitated once they saw Tristan had the count.

As Tristan neared the small group, he noticed the growing scowl on Ser Thierry's face, the man's lingering look upon the burden Tristan carried over his shoulder. The chevalier seemed fixated by this and completely ignored the pleading look from the count and stepped out to strike.

"_Arrêtez!_" The count's desperate shout put a halt to Ser Thierry's movement, but still, the chevalier seemed to vacillate between listening to his superior or to his own arrogant self. "He has magic you stupid man."

Thierry remained torn, running his gloved hands along his shiny blade. He glanced at Tristan warily, like he didn't believe Tristan could hold the gift curse of magic in his hands. Well, Tristan was not going to let this go on forever.

"You should believe your superiors, for if you don't let us pass through that gate, I will burst him," Tristan shook the count violently to make his point, "and all of you into flame."

Since that didn't seem to be quite enough, at least for the arrogant chevalier, given that his followers backed away cautiously, Tristan roughly shoved the count forward onto the ground. With his free hand, he conjured a flame, watching the horror in the count's eyes grow as the flame grew. The count cowered underneath his arms, expecting the flame to engulf him. But that was not Tristan's intent. He'd forgotten how much mages were feared and oddly, got a bit of satisfaction at seeing the fear in the eyes of those before him. And then that satisfaction departed and he hurled the flame at the top of the guard tower on the side of the gate to demonstrate his seriousness. The wooden parts caught fire immediately and a few stones crashed to the ground at the impact.

"_Faites qu'il veut, idiote!_" the count yelled, relief cracking his voice in two.

Ser Thierry reluctantly signed for the guards to open the gates. Pulling up Count Nevelon by the ridiculously puffy collar the count wore, Tristan cut a path through the guards and the chevaliers, not missing the vengeful look sent his way by Ser Thierry, and made his way under and through the gates of Jader.

Tristan made a beeline for the orchards, intending to get lost from sight of the sentries on the walls. He knew there was a chance they would come after him, but he had the count, a lucky break, really. That part, taking nobility hostage, hadn't been planned at all. Tristan felt rather pleased at that, even if he had made another powerful enemy. And the commandant having seen him, that was another enemy made. He'd been hoping to just disappear and that his part in all this would remain unknown. But once again, the Maker had turned his good intentions to shit.

He wondered at the fate of the rebels as he literally began to drag the count through the grass. The noble Nevelon was so frightened he could no longer walk on his own. Tristan hoped the rebels had gotten away. Catriel stirred in his arms, muffled noises of awakening seeping through the burlap sack of her head. He really should have removed that, but truthfully, he didn't want her to see what was happening in the square. And there hadn't been much time.

"Let me go now," the count begged, interrupting Tristan's thoughts.

"Not yet," Tristan replied tersely.

He continued to drag the count through the orchard, weaving a trail in and out of the trees. When he thought they were far enough in, far enough away from the walls of Jader, Tristan shoved the count ungracefully to the ground once more. "If you have your men follow me…"

The count cut in, spittle erupting from his mouth in anger. "You will not get away with this, I assure you, _mage_."

Tristan narrowed his gaze onto the feeble count. "If you have your men follow me, expect less mercy than I have shown today."

Count Nevelon's nostrils flared in anger but he made no sudden moves as his gaze rested apprehensively on Tristan's hand.

"And wait an hour before going back."

"Never!"

"You have no choice in this matter, oh noble count." Tristan gave a mock curtsy with his hands and then paralyzed the wide eyed count with a spell.

Catriel started squirming in his arms and pounding his back, feebly at first. And then it grew fervent and desperate as he ran further through the orchard, finding his way to where Sam awaited with the horses.

"Stop squirming and behave!" Tristan hissed in warning.

The girl made no reply, only continued doing what he did not want her doing. By the Maker, he couldn't reach Sam soon enough. He found that his breath was hard to come by, heaving for air as he was, and his legs felt ready to give out.

_I am either too old for this or riding Durendal everywhere has made me soft._

At the edge of the orchard, he halted, taking in the view before him. The road was quiet and empty. He searched for any sign of Sam. When he could find nothing, he took off for the road, running close by it and not on it. A few minutes later, the younger man's mop of blonde hair came into view, and the man himself sat atop his horse as calmly as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

"So, what did I miss?" Sam asked as Tristan finally reached him. He grinned as he saw that Tristan carried the girl. It had taken a lot of convincing on his part to get Sam to leave the city beforehand. The younger man had been offended at his exclusion from the rescue. But Tristan had reassured him that he would have an important part in it anyway – to gather rations, to get their horses out and ready to flee. Truthfully, Tristan had just been making sure that Sam did not pay once more for another of his follies – if it turned out that way in the end.

Catching his breath, Tristan did not reply right away. He dropped Catriel gently to the ground. "Do not run." Catriel sat still as a statue, so much so that Tristan wondered if her stirrings, her punches to his back had been imagined only. And then he pulled the sac off her head and met frightened, grey-blue eyes. Tristan realized that in his haste, he'd cut the noose from the gallows, but neglected to pull the rope away from her neck. He reached for it and she flinched back, but he persisted and tugged the noose loose. She still had shackles wrapped around her wrists.

"Why they put a child in shackles, I'll never understand," he muttered as he examined the iron bands. He wasn't the most experienced lock pick, but luckily he had grabbed a set of keys from the count's hall while speaking to the commandant earlier in the day. He tried one after another, his patience running thin as none of them seemed to work, until after one clumsy attempt, a click was heard as he turned a rusty key.

Catriel shook her wrists free of the weight, the chains jangling in a loud thud as they hit the ground. She pulled the noose over her head. A red welt encircled her neck where the rope had rested.

"What is happening?" she asked in a whisper, her voice slightly raspy from having her throat nearly constricted. She put a hand to her neck, as if she didn't believe she was still alive.

"We're taking you away," Tristan replied.

Her eyes narrowed in a mingling of fear and rage. "You're a _lamalouis_, one of them! You're only taking me to another prison in Halamshiral." Catriel stood up, turned around and nearly walked right into Sam's boot at the side of Halteclere. She looked up. "Oliver!"

"This is what your mother wants," Sam said. He reached for something in a pouch and then handed her an elegantly carved comb, _her_ comb, as proof.

Catriel accepted it with puzzlement, turning it around in her hands, looking as if she wanted to believe but didn't quite dare. "But..."

Eirlys had given them something else of the girl's. Tristan walked over to Durendal and retrieved it before walking back to Catriel and tossing it at her. It was her leather pack. She fingered it in quiet contemplation.

"But how did you get this?" she asked quietly.

"No buts, we're going," Tristan said with all the sternness he could muster without sounding cruel or like a commander commanding his men. "We _have_ to go, _now_."

Catriel shook her head slowly. "My mother would never agree to this. It is kidnapping. Bring me home now!"

Tristan extended his hand to her, indicating the horse behind him. Much to his frustration, she hesitated, not knowing what to do. "Do you want the chevaliers to catch up to us?"

Catriel barely suppressed a shudder. "If I must ride, I ride with Oliver."

Tristan held his hands up in surrender. "If he agrees, then by all means, ride with him. We're all going in the same direction anyway."

Sam's hand extended before Catriel. After a second of indecision, Catriel accepted it and he pulled her up behind him.

_Thank the Maker_, Tristan thought as he climbed onto his own horse. Another few minutes there and the chevaliers might have caught up to them. He was glad also, that the girl didn't take it upon herself to run away. But what other choice did she have but to come with them and trust them, the mercenaries who'd battled her own people just days ago?

Tristan noticed that Catriel seemed reluctant to place her arms around Sam. Instead, she placed them at her side, one last act of defiance. Sam glanced over his shoulder to the girl. "You might want to hold on to me."

"Why?" she asked in childish petulance.

"You might otherwise tumble off the horse once it picks up speed," Sam replied good-naturedly.

"I think not. I am strong enough…" Her hands flew to the horse's rump as it set off in a trot. Tristan set Durendal into motion and rode at their side. It wasn't especially good for the horse to push it so fast in such a small time, but Tristan needed for them to be as far away from Jader as possible. There was no telling if or more likely when the people they had so betrayed today would come after them. Durendal picked up speed, gaining a canter, and then a gallop.

"_Ayoye!"_ Catriel exclaimed. She finally grabbed a hold of Sam as Halteclere's gallop jerked her around.

Tristan and Sam chuckled in unison. It was almost as if it was more in relief that they were finally on their way, that they had actually succeeded in rescuing the girl, than it was for the look on her face.

"That was not funny," she said. Her voice seemed to be recovering already.

"We weren't laughing at you," Tristan replied.

"I was," Sam admitted, grinning over his shoulder at the girl. "I told you to hold on."

"I was not prepared, that is all it was." She looked away.

_Her spirit remains strong, in spite of everything she has been through today. Yet, I wonder, how long will it hold so? _

A tingling of anxiety crept within his heart. He did not know how to deal with children. Their ways were different from adults. They were more unpredictable. With Sam, Melisende had seen to him. Tristan had done nothing but act like an older brother. And not a very good one at that, with his frequent and long disappearances.

_The girl is in my hands now. I cannot mess things up for however long she remains so._

An uneasy silence descended upon them. They were not exactly out of the woods yet.

After a while, Catriel seemed to realize that they were not following the setting sun. Tristan was expecting this and was ready to answer, though he still wasn't sure what kind of reaction he would get from her.

"Halamshiral is west," Catriel pointed out.

"We're not going west."

A look of confusion settled onto Catriel's features. "Then where are we going?"

"We're bringing you home, like you wanted," Sam answered.

They may have saved Catriel, but they might also have just signed their own death warrants. Tristan looked east with a sudden sense of longing, for what, he wasn't quite sure. A sigh escaped from his lips, despite his attempts to suppress it.

And then Tristan clarified, "To Ferelden."

* * *

Translations:

_Quelle honte! _= For shame!

_Arrêtez!_ = Stop!

_Faites qu'il veut, idiote! _= Do what he wants, idiot!

_Ayoye! _= an expression, akin to "ouch" or "ow", or in this context one of surprise (ah!).

* * *

_That completes Part I. I am currently in the process of writing Part II. Stay tuned!_

-artemiskat


	17. Chapter Sixteen: The Fleeting Comfort of

_See profile for progress updates._

* * *

Part II

Chapter Sixteen  
The Fleeting Comfort of Escape

That slender neck, so pale, soft, and smooth; it was like playing with an alabaster doll. How deceptively innocent it was. How fragile it was. It would be so easy to just…

His hands reached for it. His palms wrapped around it almost tenderly. He could feel the quick beating of her pulse, the fear pumping through her veins. He could even see it.

It wasn't fair, that this neck was unmarred.

A perfect madness seized him then, some ghost or spirit – some demon – found its way into his body, telling his mind how easy vengeance would be and guiding his hands to twist her neck. He listened and accepted all too readily the whispered commands of the other thing within him. He twisted her neck like he was wringing dry a dirty wet rag.

But he was sucking the life out of her.

And it pleased him. Yes, it pleased him very much.

And she writhed underneath him. She clawed at him desperately in a fight for her life.

Her eyes, like the glass eyes of that alabaster doll, glittered. Yet, unlike the doll who stares emptily and happily at anything put before it, hers glittered with unfathomable terror.

And it made him happy, blissfully so.

Until his hands transformed before his very eyes. A strange but familiar blackness travelled up along his hands, turning his skin into something rough and withered. He felt itchy, he felt hot underneath it. His blood ran thick within his veins. And the humming… it swam through his mind, blocking out her whimpers. And finally, sharp, beastly talons jutted out where his nails simply fell off. Her horror became his.

And he let her go.

Her grasping, sucking intake of sweet air was the last coherent thing he heard before his mind escaped into oblivion – or was it just that he awakened?

…

Tristan sat up and fought off a wave of nausea as the dream rested fitfully at the edges of his mind. His heart stammered in agony and he felt the unpleasant formation of sweat beneath his heavy chainmail, which had dug into his back painfully while he slept. And he felt also, the taint along his arms.

He reached for the pouch underneath his tunic. For comfort. For escape.

_It was only a nightmare._

Yet it was more than that, he knew. It had been some time since it came to him. He refused to acknowledge it though and forced it to fade away as much as he could. Remnants of it would no doubt linger for days, until the next one made it fresh again. It was both truth and memory, past and future. How much longer he could deny that… he did not know and did not care to know.

Turning his thoughts to the present, Tristan scanned the hastily erected campsite, really nothing more than a small clearing in a mockery of a forest beside the imperial highway. A few trees did not make a forest, just as a few men did not make an army, but it had been the best they could find before fatigue, both theirs and that of the horses, had forced them to stop. He'd allowed no fires, for he didn't doubt the commandant's promise to come after them, though the night had been warm enough to not need one anyway.

Sam rested opposite him, sleeping deeply. Tristan shoved the pouch back underneath his tunic, standing up in a growing tide of panic as realization dawned on him.

_The girl is gone._

The horses remained, he could be thankful for that, but it did not calm him.

He walked over to Sam, shaking him rudely awake by the collar of his chainmail. They'd been too exhausted to take it off, too fearful of someone catching up to them unprepared.

"Where is Catriel?" Tristan asked as Sam awoke in confusion.

Sam pushed him away, a bare hint of annoyance in his features. "I don't know. I fell asleep."

"For the love of the Maker," Tristan groaned. He should have known she would seize the first chance she could to run away. She thought them no better than the men who'd locked her up. He should not have let himself fall into sleep.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. He arose from the ground slowly, flexing the kinks out of his neck from a night on hard ground and in armour.

_You don't look sorry._ Tristan glared at the younger man, but fought back the urge to release a fury onto him. It was as much his as it was Sam's fault after all.

"I have to find her."

The early morning light shone through the dew draped leaves and branches of the trees surrounding them, willows mostly he noticed with a stab of pain. _Brenna's favourite tree…_ He shoved the thought away quickly and focused on the light beams. Like a beacon on a lighthouse, they showed him the path Catriel had taken. Her feet, wet from the dew, had left indentations on the forest floor.

"She's not far. Stay here," he told Sam before plunging onto the girl's trail.

…

The ground squished beneath her feet. She parted tall, rustling reeds from in front of her. Catriel didn't care that her movement was rousing the whole marshy area, sending birds flying into the air and frogs leaping away from her frantic run. Her boots were soaked and her leggings were muddied. A part of her knew that she should care about leaving behind imprints that they could so obviously see. That was the rational half of her mind. The emotional part, however, was overwhelming her, sending her into a breathless panic.

She had to get away.

As she stomped through the marsh, Catriel bit her lip to contain the quivering of her mouth that threatened to spasm out of control, to turn into a mess of tears. She would not cry.

She was alive, yet she felt as if she had escaped the smoke and fell right into the fire.

_One of mother's fond sayings…._

The thought of her mother halted her abruptly. She nearly tripped into the swampy water. Instead, she kicked a lily pad far into the air, shuddering as the slimy water covered her arm in response. It helped ease the tightness in her chest though.

_Oh _mamae_, was that you I saw while I stood beneath the gallows? Were you really there, aiding in my rescue? But why would you hand me over to these brutes?_

Catriel couldn't wrap her head around what happened. Were these mercenaries really helping her? Why would they do such a thing? They may have saved her, but she didn't trust them. They had given her things that belonged to her – her pack, her comb – to prove they meant well. That didn't mean her mother gave it to them. They might have stolen it. Her stupid mouth had, after all, revealed to Oliver where her home was.

_Ferelden, home?_ Catriel moved forward once more, whipping another reed out of her way.

"That is not my home," she insisted loudly, though nobody was around to hear. "My home is in the mountains, with my mother."

She wondered what had become of her mother. Surely, she remained still in this world. The Beyond had not claimed her; she would have felt it in her heart had it done so.

_Then why does it beat so furiously?_

Maybe she was just angry that she lived and breathed still while others, more worthy to live than she was, embraced the Beyond.

_Soris, Guion, __Athras, Rinna, Paivel, Ashalle, Ghilriel, so many others I did not see,__ and perhaps… perhaps even mother…_

She had to go back, no matter what the _lamalouis_ said.

The reeds thinned out, the ground became sturdier and drier. She stepped out of the marsh to stand before a grand old ruin. A stone watchtower loomed ahead of her. She looked up, noticing the once fine workmanship beneath streaks of soot from a long ago fire. It seemed sturdy enough to her. If she climbed to the top, she could get her bearings, perhaps even clear her thoughts enough to figure out how to get home.

"And home is not Ferelden," she muttered before racing toward the watchtower.

There was no door, just a rotting piece of wood which she kicked in delight. Oh, but it felt good to hit something. The wood scattered into pieces and she climbed over the debris into the watchtower. A narrow spiral staircase led to the top. And it was steep. The steps were scratched but as she leapt onto the first one, nothing fell out of place, nothing groaned beneath her and so she pressed on. Her breath became labored after she climbed stair after stair, all the while stooping slightly to avoid hitting her forehead on the bottom of the staircase above.

And then she found herself on the top, the rising sun briefly blinding her. It was a glorious sight to see and a wonder to feel the warmth on her cheeks, the breeze flitter through her hair. She'd thought not to ever see or feel like this again.

She stood transfixed for some moments, not thinking, just feeling and seeing.

_I am alive_, she repeated in a singsong mantra in her head. But like earlier, a darkness crept into her sudden serenity. _At what price am I alive?_

Catriel was jerked back into that dark world at the sound of something or rather someone trudging up the steps behind her.

"Maker's breath, was this staircase made for the feet, height, and breadth of dwarves?"

Catriel gripped the edge of the wall, looking over to the ground below. She contemplated jumping over to escape… _to escape what exactly?_

But he was there before she could think further, out of breath with a face stricken with fear for a fleeting moment that was not lost on Catriel.

"Why?" she asked.

"I could ask the same of you," Bernard replied, stretching up to his full height once out of the staircase entrance. He remained a few feet away from her, as if she were a frightened animal that he did not want to set into a panic.

_He's not far from the truth, if that's what he thinks._ She folded her arms in a gesture to show that she was peeved to see him there.

"Just where were you running off to?" Bernard asked after a moment of silent study of each other.

"Home."

"Home?"

"Yes, _home_." She pronounced the word slowly, for he seemed to be a dimwit.

The _lamalouis_ sighed and clutched at his temple. "We are taking you home."

"Ferelden is not my home."

"You have family there, deep within the Brecilian Forest. Your father…"

"You're taking me to my… _father_?" she interrupted in disbelief. _Bullshit_. Her father was dead.

He nodded.

"And this is what my mother wanted?" Her voice cracked. She unconsciously rubbed her neck where the noose had rested against her skin not so long ago.

"She wants you to be safe. What you think is home is no longer a safe place. It is a land of chaos and I've a feeling it is only going to get worse."

It hurt a little to breathe, to talk, but nothing would silence her now. "So she sends me to Ferelden in the hands of men who days ago fought against her and held me locked up in a cage? A cage! What kind of person does that? Why should I trust you?"

"You are right to be angry with me…"

"The gods know I am." She folded her arms in anger, to stop her fists from doing something utterly stupid.

"… but even when it looked like I wasn't doing anything to help you, I was. Oliver was."

She looked away from the strange man and into her own mind. _He should have set fire to that room if he really wanted to help me. Then Guion could have been freed as well…_

"I know this is sudden, and weird. You will see, though, that things are not as bleak as you think them to be." He watched her with surprising kindness and that annoyed her.

"What do you know?" she scoffed.

"I know a lot, actually."

She frowned. "You still haven't said why you want to help me, why I should even trust you."

"I…" he paused, looking as if he searched for the right words to say.

_He creates another lie to lure me in, no doubt_.

Finally, Bernard continued. "I knew your father, long ago. I owe him my life. I owe your mother my life as well."

_There he goes, speaking about my father again. My father who is a ghoul. What sick game is he playing? _

Catriel looked up from beneath her lashes, studying the liar standing before her. She might as well play along, for the moment at least. "What is his name?"

"You don't know the name of your own father?" A hint of amusement flickered within his blue eyes before it hid behind an air of seriousness, especially after the angry glare she sent his way.

"What are _their_ names? I need to trust you. Can't you see that? So tell me, prove to me you know my father, my mother, by giving me two simple names."

"Eirlys…"

It did not surprise her that he knew her mother's name. Her impatience was growing however and she quickly prodded him onward. "And my father?"

"Your father is Ronan, son of Keeper Silas and Siofra."

Catriel turned away, her face to the wind and the rising sun once more. The names, said so easily and given so freely, meant nothing to her. _My father is dead_. Yet she did not call Bernard out on his lie.

She faced him again. "And my mother – describe her to me."

"Long brown hair. Grey eyes. A great warrior. Her _vallaslin_ run along her forehead and swirl somewhat onto her cheeks. Like this, or something like this." He paused to motion against his face, drawing out what he was attempting to describe.

Catriel eyed him warily. _He says the Dalish word and not simply tattoo… _The man was a puzzle to her. His own tattoos looked strangely like those of her people, though even odder, they seemed not finished, like they had stopped abruptly in mid-creation. Whoever he was, he claimed to owe her mother a debt. And he had described her rather perfectly, if not a tad too vague. He said also that he knew her father long ago… a father she thought long dead. _He is dead_. But it was as if all of a sudden, she did not know what to believe anymore.

"And my father…" It came out in a whisper. She almost wanted him to be telling the truth. She expected though, that the wool was being pulled over her eyes.

"I didn't hear," he said, crouching lower to meet her eye level. "Speak up please."

"My father," she raised her voice to normal. "What does he look like?"

He studied her closely for a minute. She felt like looking away, but did not.

"You look much like him, actually." He said it as if he were seeing her for the first time, surprise and a bit of wonder mixed in his expression.

Catriel regarded him askance, slightly offended, a little confused.

Bernard cleared his throat. "Though in a much more feminine kind of way."

That was too much for her. "Enough. So my parents rescued _shems_ from death. Great." Catriel began to pace in the small space atop the tower. "But it is still your word or nothing. If you didn't owe them, would you still be _helping_ me?"

He nodded and with no hesitation apparent, replied, "Yes."

"There seem to be no choices here. You are taking me somewhere I don't want to go based on my mother's supposed wishes. It's as if I traded one cage for another."

Bernard looked offended by her words. "It is not like that. You must trust me."

"Must I? What about what I want? I am not some child to be bossed around."

He let out a long and tired sigh. "Do you really want to go back?"

"Yes! I want to know what happened. I want to know if… if they still walk in this realm. I want to be a part of the rebellion." She stopped pacing and pounded the stone wall for emphasis as her fury built. "I want vengeance on my captors, and by Elgar'nan I swear I will have it."

An amusing grin spread across the mercenary's face. Catriel felt mocked.

"What do you grin at, buffoon?"

"Nothing." Bernard straightened up and his face returned to its earlier air of severity. "I will tell you this Catriel and then you are free to choose, but I hope you do it wisely. Going back will only make what happened in Jader for nothing. Whatever happened, they saved you. Eirlys and the others – Fenarel, Thorn, and everyone else – they would keep it that way."

She felt her eyes open wide in surprise, and then quickly shielded her emotions from the mercenary. _Fenarel lives… though he still could have died at Jader. _Catriel was even sort of happy to hear that Thorn was still around. Her mother would need him, now that she was gone. If her mother was still alive.

"I need to know," she said.

"Is that your choice then, to throw away your gift of _revas_ and go back to Orlais, to a home which no longer exists?"

Catriel hesitated under his intense stare. She couldn't just turn her back on her mother, on her people. And who was he to say her home did not exist anymore? Home was wherever her mother was.

"But when will I know what happened? A thousand years from now, when I am long dead?"

"Go back and you will be long dead."

She bit back a retort. For all he wanted to help her, she could feel his impatience and he was a _shem _mercenary – she wasn't sure how he would take to an insult she so wanted to deal him. The bastard had a point though. She thought she deserved death, but her mother _had_ after all been in Jader, risking her own life for Catriel's freedom. She could not, and should not, refuse her mother's wishes.

"So, have you made up your mind?"

After an agonizing moment in which she thought her head might just burst into pieces at the thoughts running through her mind, Catriel let out an exasperated breath, gazing toward the west with longing. Her heart broke as she said the words, "Fine, I will go with you."

_But I still do not trust you. Liar. My father is dead. This I know to be true._

Bernard seemed relieved, yet his attention was diverted by something in the distance behind them. He squinted at the beastly silhouette. Not a beast, Catriel noticed, but a lone rider.

"Should we be worried?" she asked.

"No, I don't think so," he replied. A trace of a smile overcame his face. Did he recognize the rider? The horse, perhaps? "But we should get back."

Catriel was not reassured and yet she grudgingly followed the Crimson Knight down the watchtower's stairs. She might not trust him, but she knew it could be much worse. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of one who might be after her – Ser Thierry.


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Crossroads

Chapter Seventeen  
Crossroads

It was nearly the middle of the day when they finally heard the pounding hooves behind them. Tristan had warned Sam that someone was on their trail, yet he hadn't said who. He hadn't been fully sure of the lone rider's identity. And now, as he turned Durendal around to face their pursuer, all ponderings in his mind ceased.

"Magalie," he called out with a smile. "Come you as friend or foe?"

She trotted up on her dun colored horse she'd named Poésie. _Poetry_, Tristan had laughed when he learned what the name meant. Who would name their horse _Poetry_? She'd only smiled and remained coy. It was easy to see now, what drove her to that. The horse was sleek and graceful in its movements, Magalie a part of it. The both of them together did look like poetry. He wasn't a poet, was never good with words, but he felt like he was seeing poetry in motion. Magalie sat straight atop the magnificent beast. Her hair trailed in the faint wind, her crossbow tucked neatly at her back, she rode the horse effortlessly and was such a part of the beast and the beast a part of her, that she held only one rein. He'd seen her shoot her crossbow from atop that beast.

_Beautiful, they are both beautiful_, he thought as she pulled up before them. He felt silly for those thoughts and tried vainly to remove the smile from his face.

"I come as messenger – and friend." Magalie replied at last, a small smile turning her mouth.

Tristan felt a tide of relief wash over him. He didn't realize how much he was dreading her answer – what if she had said _foe_?

"Then deliver your message and be gone," Sam barked.

"Oh, how you make the ladies swoon, Oliver." She fanned her face in mockery, turning her attention to Sam. "But I see all you have at your back is a girl."

Sam grumbled, looked like he was about to send a retort Magalie's way when it was stifled by something even more unexpectedly venomous.

"Shut up Orlesian," Catriel hissed from behind Sam.

_Oh, by the Maker. _"Everyone please be serious," Tristan begged. He didn't want this meeting to turn into some kind of circus. Why couldn't everyone just get along?

"You want serious? I'll give you serious." Magalie reined in Poésie at his side and looked him square in the eye. And then she gave him the bad news he knew was coming. "The Crimson Knights and a contingent of chevaliers from Jader are a day behind you. Ser Thierry is at the helm, the commandant at his shoulder."

Tristan sighed. "I suspected as much." He could feel the first niggling of a headache moving in.

"You really pissed everyone off." Magalie smiled almost proudly and did something unforeseen – she wiggled her fingers his way. "It's a shame I had to hear of it all from Berenger."

Tristan grinned back, forgetting the others for a second as he lost himself in the sight of Magalie. "I could hold it in no longer. I am sorry that you did not get to see the _spectacle_."

From behind them, Sam cleared his throat and the moment was gone. "The message?"

"Ah_ oui_, the message." Magalie pulled away from Durendal, who was attempting to nip Poésie. "The message is from the commandant – give up the girl and yourselves, and we will come to an understanding."

"An understanding?" Sam laughed. Tristan imagined that if he'd had a drink in his mouth, he'd have spit it out.

"The only understanding the commandant comes to is the kind that rips apart heads from bodies," Tristan noted. _At least with his enemies, which we've now become,_ he left unsaid. A part of Tristan regretted betraying the commandant. The man had been good to them after all. But truth be told, Duplessis had also been rotten to the core. Something Tristan had taken long to realize. _Because I was just like him…_

Magalie smiled and nodded. "I know."

"You have the nerve bringing that _message_ to us." Sam brought his horse closer to Magalie's. His hand rested just above the hilt of his sword, twitching. Tristan attempted to garner the young man's attention, to warn him away from that path, but Sam would not look his way.

"You should go back and tell those _shems_ that they will never have me." Catriel said from behind Sam. She sent a vehement look toward the Orlesian woman. "Better yet, let's send them her head!"

Sam chuckled, all the while staring at Magalie with unmasked distrust. "I like how you think girl."

_Oh for the love of the Maker, why do I always have to keep the peace?_

"Quiet!" Tristan shouted. This was not going well. "Nobody is losing their head today."

"Tomorrow then?" Catriel asked with a hint of mockery in her voice.

Tristan sent a look toward the girl that he hoped would brook no further argument from her. It seemed to work, though it brought about a hateful pout from Catriel.

"It's alright girl." Magalie directed her attention onto Catriel. "I might feel the same way in your shoes. You have nothing to fear from me."

"Says the _lamalouis_," Catriel huffed. "Say you all."

"I can't hear myself think. I need quiet now." It came out so forceful, they obeyed. Yes, obeyed, as if he were once more the Commander of the Grey. Tristan was happy to see Magalie, to receive the information she'd brought them, but it didn't quite make sense to him.

"Why would Duplessis even bother with a messenger? What game is he playing?"

"I believe it is more about beating Thierry to the catch. They hate each other, blame each other for what you did. The count had to get in between them at one point." Magalie chuckled at the memory. "It was quite a sight. You would have laughed."

"Well that should work in our favour." Sam turned to Tristan, looking for confirmation of his words.

Tristan shook his head. "You would think so, but faced with a common enemy, a common hatred, they will work together."

"Or tear out each other's throats," Sam said. He pointed a finger at Magalie. "You heard what she said and she is here on the commandant's behalf. They are already working against each other."

"Yet it worries me."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"When the wolf hunts, it works in a pack to corral the prey. That is why a pack of wolves rarely goes hungry." They all turned to Catriel – Sam looking over his shoulder – who spoke in low, warning tones. "But a lone wolf, hungry and desperate, can be much more of a danger than any pack. That is why it is wise to be wary of the wolf. It almost always wins – together or alone."

Tristan had a flash of memory. A pack of wolves, howling, nipping around him, fur bristling. And a great wave of fire. _Wolves can lose_.

"The girl is smart," Magalie broke through the thoughtful silence.

"Does he expect a reply?" Tristan asked.

Magalie shrugged. "If he does, he will be waiting a very long time for it. I am not going back."

"And we're supposed to believe you?" Sam jeered.

Tristan sighed. Sam would never be a diplomat. "What he means to ask is – where are you going, if not back?"

Magalie looked away in the distance for a moment. When she looked Tristan's way again, her eyes were alight. "I was hoping to travel with you, for a time."

Sam laughed and shook his head with scorn. Tristan, on the other hand, was startled. He couldn't see why she would want to travel with them. It would mean turning her back on the Crimson Knights, on her country even. Why would she want that? What game was she playing? She seemed honest enough in her intentions, yet perhaps his judgment was clouded by his relationship with her. His curiousity got the better of him; he'd have to find out.

"Very well then," Tristan said with a slight nod, turning his horse around, and ready to set them on their way once more.

"You've got to be kidding!" Sam said in disbelief.

"We don't own the path we travel." Tristan set Durendal into motion.

"You'll be sorry," Sam grumbled from behind. "She'll stab you in the back sooner or later."

Tristan looked over his shoulder. They followed. That was all that mattered for the moment. There was no more time to waste.

"I'm Orlesian, not deaf." Magalie trotted after them, glaring at Sam. "_Innocent_."

…

They reached the border. It was strangely unguarded. Tristan brought Durendal to a halt. Sam went galloping past, Catriel holding tightly to him, before he too came to a stop, though on the other side. In Ferelden.

Magalie pulled up beside him, glancing at him curiously. "This imaginary line drawn into the ground – it will not stop Thierry or Duplessis."

So, she knew where they were. There was no going back once they crossed over. Tristan should be happy to be returning to Ferelden, shouldn't he? Sam certainly was. But Sam didn't worry about anything. All of that fell onto Tristan's shoulders. Once he passed this, _imaginary line_, the burden would grow. He couldn't let Sam pay for things he had no part in. He couldn't let Catriel fall into dangerous hands. He took a deep breath.

"Then let's not tarry here, shall we?"

Tristan crossed over. Without looking back, Magalie followed.

…

They traveled for another day and night, breaking briefly whenever they could to rest the horses, to rest themselves. As of yet, there was no sign of anyone behind them. Still, that did not make Tristan feel any better. Another day went by in a tense quiet. Nobody quite trusted one another, Tristan noticed. Catriel didn't trust him and Sam, Sam didn't trust Magalie, and Magalie's suspicious eyes watched Sam every moment. He was beginning to regret allowing her to follow, for all the headaches it was bringing on, pounding his head until he could no longer think straight. They stopped for another night.

Tristan wandered away from the others, after tethering Durendal to a tree. The horses were tired. He didn't know how much longer they could ride them at such a hasty pace. There were so many things to consider. Tristan massaged his aching temples.

"How much longer are we going to keep the truth from them?" Sam appeared before him, leaning himself casually against a tree.

Tristan blinked away a new headache before lowering his voice to answer. "For now… we are still Bernard and Oliver. I can't risk Catriel finding out the truth about me. She might try and run again."

"Because of that whole _I'm a Dalish elf and so I must hate shem'lens_ thing?" Sam's mimicry of a Dalish elf was spot on.

"Yes…" Tristan chuckled. "Though that is not entirely true of every single Dalish out there. But you are right in this instance. If she finds out she is related to one… I don't want to risk it until we are close to the forest."

"I get your point. I remember Velanna, after all." Sam grinned in mischief. "But Magalie – if she finds out the truth about us – how can you be sure she won't sell us out? Just because you are fucking her doesn't make her incorruptible."

Tristan frowned at the younger man's remark. "I haven't _fucked_ her since Orlais. Not that that is any of your business. And that is not why I let her follow us."

"So you are mistrustful of her?"

"No."

Sam sighed in confused frustration. "Then I clearly don't get it. What if she takes Catriel away while we are sleeping? What if she takes her back to the count? She is a mercenary after all."

"It hasn't happened yet, and it never will."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes," Tristan replied firmly. Magalie might actually be playing them for fools, the thought had briefly crossed his mind, but he didn't think the woman would actually attempt anything, not until the others caught up to them. Tristan preferred to think that she simply wanted to follow them and that was all. No ulterior motives, nothing of the sort. If that made him a fool… well, then he was a fool.

"Well, that makes one of us." Sam crossed his arms over his chest, frustration visible in the narrow set of his eyes.

"She can be trusted," Tristan reaffirmed.

"I hope you are right."

"What are you two whispering about?" Magalie had crept up from behind. She placed a hand lightly atop Tristan's shoulder. "You're like a pair of gossiping hens."

"It is none of your business _Orlesian_." Sam walked away briskly, making his way back to Catriel, who sat on the ground hugging her knees to her chin.

Magalie's eyes trailed after the younger man. "It's a wonder your brother lasted so long in Orlais. His hatred of us Orlesians is so great. But I do not fault him. Sometimes I hate my own countrymen. And most of the time, I am incredibly embarrassed by them."

Tristan smiled. "It was nothing, really."

"_Alors_, sleep well my friend." She winked before settling herself comfortably onto the ground nearby, but far enough away from everyone else.

Tristan didn't think he would sleep well, but perhaps, this one time, the Maker would be merciful to him. _Oh, who am I kidding? The Maker exists to make my life miserable._ He settled himself onto the ground and watched. Despite his confidence in the woman, Sam's words put him on edge. There was a very real possibility that Magalie could leave with Catriel. There was also the possibility the girl might leave all on her own.

There would be no sleep for him that night.

* * *

Translations:

spectacle = show

innocent = literally means "innocent" but here is used in an insulting way, something akin to saying "wet behind the ears"


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Confessions of a Liar

Chapter Eighteen  
Confessions of a Liar

The day was stifling. The heat, sweltering. The sky, bright. Her skin, warm and sweaty. Waves of hot air danced up from the ground ahead of them. And there was nothing Catriel could do to shield her eyes from that brightness, except to pull up her hood – which served only to make her hotter. It was an overall disgusting feeling.

Catriel looked longingly toward the Frostbacks – home. It was always so cool there, never unpleasant. She was comforted by the fact that she could still see the familiar peaks, even from Ferelden. But one day, she wouldn't be able to see them, and she didn't know what she would do then. She imagined it would be like losing a part of herself.

"Cat," Oliver called out lazily from beside her. She almost felt sorry for the others – they must be boiling under their armour – but she knew that they were probably used to the feeling. "Give me your hand."

She sent a questioning look toward Oliver. Their journey so far had been quiet. If they were indeed being trailed by a large group of armed men, then it was only right and wise to refrain from chatter. They didn't want to make it easier for their pursuers, did they? But it was growing tiresome for Catriel, who wished only to work her tongue. It was torture to keep silent for such a long time. She itched to ask questions, to say anything.

"Trust me," he said with a grin. A strand of blonde hair was plastered to his cheek, held there by sweat.

_Trust me this, trust me that. It's all they ever want me to do._ Catriel frowned but reluctantly, she held out her hand. Oliver dropped something square and hard into it. Catriel's stomach rumbled in hunger at the sight, yet for the life of her, she did not want to eat _that_, _again_.

"Mercenary rations, again?" Catriel hesitated a few seconds before popping the small morsel of jerky into her mouth. She began to chew, slowly. It was hard as a rock. She knew it was the only food she was going to get for a while and so she had no choice but to eat it. She accepted another bit from Oliver.

"After years and years of eating nothing but – you get used to it," Oliver explained. They walked side by side, Oliver leading his horse, ahead of Bernard and Magalie.

"Well, I don't plan on eating this for years and years," Catriel managed through bites. No, she wasn't going to be eating this for long at all. Her mind had begun to formulate a plan. A plan of escape. The details had not worked themselves out yet, but she figured they would come to her, eventually.

Oliver chuckled. "I should have gotten some of those cakes you favour so much."

"Oh please, my mouth waters at the thought." Catriel narrowed her eyes at the man. "Do not torment me so!"

"Sorry." Oliver grinned cheekily. He turned a ration around in his palm, as if he contemplated whether or not he should eat as well. "Honestly, though, sometimes I long for the days when I worked in the kitchens. Fuck, did I eat good back then."

Catriel turned surprised eyes onto the mercenary. "You were a cook?"

"No." He shook his head slightly. "Not really anyway. To earn my stay at Vigil's Keep, I was assistant to one. The man was somewhat of a bastard at times, but bearable."

"Where was Bernard?"

"Adventuring."

Catriel brushed her hair away from her face in a thoughtful gesture. Oliver had mentioned Bernard adventuring before or rather, not being around. They didn't seem to be close, at least not in the past. "You know, you told me you were trained by the Grey Wardens, but you never said anything about your parents, just that they were lost to the Blight."

"That is the truth, unfortunately. My father was a soldier. He left for the Blight and never returned. My mother, she left for a better life, but instead the darkspawn found her."

_The darkspawn found her?_ Catriel had a vague idea of what that meant. She'd heard the tales from Lethra. She had never really believed them though. The creatures the _hahren_ called darkspawn would take women to breed more of themselves. It was all very disgusting – if it were true. And if it were true, then Oliver and Bernard's mother had become a monster.

"I'm sorry," Catriel whispered.

"It was a long time ago."

Oliver focused on the road ahead of them. To Catriel, he seemed a little sad. Her thoughts turned to her own mother. And then she quickly turned them, for she feared she just might break down. _There's no time for that… not yet._

"These darkspawn creatures – they truly exist then?"

Oliver studied her askance. "Oh yes."

"You've seen them? With your own eyes?"

He nodded slowly. "I was there, when they took my mother. They are ghastly, things right out of nightmares. It is a Grey Warden's duty to hunt them. So I have seen my fair share of the bastards."

"I always thought the Blight was a tale to frighten children into sleep. Lethra, an elder woman, is always telling me tales."

"Most tales are borne right out of history. I was always fascinated by them."

"Not me." That was a tiny lie. Catriel did like stories, to a point.

"And why not?"

Catriel shrugged. "They are always about humans, never about Dalish. All the tales of _elvhen_ are sad tragedies. Who wants to hear of those?"

"There must be heroes in your people's tales."

"Yes, but those are tales. What of the real people?"

"You don't believe your gods were real?"

"Maybe. But that was long ago."

"Well…" Oliver lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The Hero of Ferelden is…"

"A _shem_."

"Not entirely."

"What do you mean?"

"He is born of an elven mother."

_These two must eat bullshit for lunch_. "How do you know this?"

"I am from Ferelden. Many things come to light when we are in our cups, and we are in our cups often."

Catriel frowned. "Even if you spoke the truth, he would be human in appearance. The child of an elf and a human will always look human. That fact is known."

"And what is your point?"

"He's still not an _elvhen_ hero."

Oliver shook his head but laughed nonetheless. "You're so picky."

"Well, what if all the stories you heard growing up were about dwarves?"

"They are a fascinating people. The Provings in particular used to interest me to no end."

"Until they locked you up and forced you to fight a bronto, right?" Catriel smugly pointed out. She immediately felt bad about it, though she didn't know why. She didn't trust Oliver, she should get joy out of saying things like that to him. Somehow, she didn't.

A dark look overcame him then, though he did not direct it toward her. "I do not fault an entire race for the actions of a few."

She felt like he was cautioning her to do the same. She fell quiet for a moment. She pushed her hair out of her face, feeling the sweat that had formed at the nape of her neck. It was rather uncomfortable and irritated her welt from the noose. She wished they could find some shade and just sit down for a moment or two. The horses were tired. Their stench wasn't at all pleasant. And her stomach rumbled yet again.

"Give me a bow and arrow and I will find us some real food."

Oliver laughed. She shifted in front of him and walked backward, all the while glaring angrily at the _lamalouis_.

"What? You think I can't hunt? How do you think we survived in the mountains? By growing cabbage and potatoes?"

"Of course not. I have no doubt you can hunt. And it is very tempting Cat, but we don't have the time."

"Says who?" Catriel nodded to the back of them. "Your brother?"

Oliver glanced back over his shoulder and then nodded.

"Do you always listen to him? It seems like he was never there for you when you needed him."

Oliver's brow creased in anger. Perhaps she had hit far closer to the truth than she ever intended to. "I am my own man, I assure you. On this matter, though, he is right. We have men following us. Men who wish to do us harm."

"Then, give me a bow and arrow anyway, for how am I to defend myself if they do catch up – if that Orlesian _salope_ is telling the truth that is…" Catriel eyed Magalie behind them all, who scanned the sides of the road in suspicion, all the while her gaze falling constantly onto Bernard's backside.

Oliver's expression changed as swiftly as the wind. "Did I mention before, that I like how you think? _Salope_ – you hate Orlesians, but you're not afraid to use their own language against them. You are priceless and I will gladly defend you to the death when or _if_ they catch up."

"I don't need defending, and I use only the bad words. Otherwise, I won't speak that frilly, arrogant tongue."

Oliver laughed, his smile radiating an infectiousness that caused Catriel to give in and smile herself, though she was terribly offended that he thought she needed defending. Well, she had gotten herself into such a mess, it was only natural he would think that. She would prove herself though, just as she had to Fenarel. She stopped walking backwards and returned to Oliver's side.

Out of the blue, a chill gust of wind seemed to blow from every direction. Catriel's hair was whipped into the air wildly. Her sweat went cold and goose bumps dotted her skin, sending a shiver through her body. A shadow passed over and she looked up, but saw nothing. Not even a cloud in the sky.

Oliver's horse Halteclere careened to the side with a short whinny. Oliver pulled on the reins and gently crept closer to the beast, patting its head to calm it down.

"By the Dread Wolf, what was that?" she asked.

"What was what?" Oliver answered in reply. "The horses probably just got spooked by an animal."

She looked over her shoulder to see Bernard and Magalie doing the same for their horses. Bernard searched the skies worriedly, a hand hovering over the hilt of his sword.

"Never mind."

Bernard had seen the shadow as well. It was no animal that spooked the horses. Had they not felt the cold wind as well? Bernard galloped up on his horse, the woman on her own horse by his side.

"Let's be quick again," he said.

Oliver climbed onto his horse, extending a hand to Catriel. She took it and he pulled her up hastily behind him. She met Bernard's eyes and he seemed to be telling her not to worry. After a few minutes of a steady canter, he led them off the open highway and onto a back trail, toward the eastern steps of the Frostback Mountains.

…

The night was a realm of shadows that would frighten many people in such a hilly, forested place such as they were in. But Tristan was not afraid of what the back roads held. He'd been in such places before. He'd been in worse places than this frankly, and nothing would frighten or surprise him anymore. Tristan wandered a little bit off from the others, to watch the night, the shadows.

An unsettled feeling came over him. The girl had seen it too. He was not losing his mind again, that little part was reassuring. But now they were not only running from vengeful, murderous men, but from something else. Something terrifying and enormous. There was no way he could defend them all if it decided to hunt them down as well.

Magalie strolled into his view. So much for his alone time.

"_J'espère ca vaut la peine_." She turned her gaze to a sleeping Catriel. "I hope she was worth it."

Tristan imitated Magalie and watched the girl, Catriel – his niece. "I don't need coin for something to be worth doing."

"That is not what I meant," Magalie attempted to correct herself.

"It was the right thing to do."

"You sound as if you wish to convince yourself and not I."

"They were my brothers for nine years."

Magalie inched closer to him. She brushed something off of his shoulder and then met his gaze. "They were lousy brothers who would turn their backs on you quicker than you could say the word brother."

"That doesn't make it less of a betrayal."

"So you have a heart, a rare thing these days to be sure."

"Just… why are you here, anyway?" He still wondered at that. Unlike Sam, he didn't think the woman was out to betray them. _Then again, I may be too besotted with her to think straight._ "Are you here because you hate Thierry or because…"

"Because?" She tilted her head at an angle, reminding Tristan of how a mabari would look if it was spoken to like it was a baby.

He couldn't bring life to the words floating in his mind. _Because you care for me. Because you like me._ No, he could not say those words. Not yet.

"Just why are you here?"

She watched him curiously, thoughtfully before giving an answer. "You've inspired me to do the right thing. And this is the right thing."

He lifted a brow in surprise. "I've inspired you into betrayal. Well that makes me feel a lot better."

Tristan had just wanted to do the right thing. After years of blindingly following orders, orders which he knew held no shred of honour within them, saving Catriel was the right thing to do. The girl was blood, for all that ever mattered to him, but Crimson Knights, they were his brothers in arms. It didn't matter that they were lousy and for the most part unlikable, in doing the honorable thing, he had done a dishonorable thing. _Oh when will it ever end? _He'd betrayed his brothers, and now deservedly, they were hunting him down.

"Bernard," Magalie's voice cut through his thoughts. She watched him curiously and waved a hand before his face. "Bernard, did you just fall asleep standing up?"

"No… I've a lot on my mind Magalie. You should get to sleep."

She didn't take her eyes off him. That feeling she gave him, that she knew his lies, came creeping back into him. He wanted to melt into the shadows and hide from it. But he could not.

"You are nervous. They are a day behind. You have the advantage here. You know this country. They do not. With a flick of your hand, you can call upon the elements to rain down on them. You have the gift of magic."

_The curse of magic_. He chuckled nervously under her stare. Maybe he didn't want to face his old comrades. Maybe he did not want to have to kill them like he knew he would have to if it came down to another choice between them and Catriel. The chevaliers, he didn't quite care for, but… Berenger for instance, could he kill that man whose only fault was loving coin too much for his own good? _No matter what I do, I am a soulless hand of a demon_…

"I wonder why you turned onto the back roads. Your countrymen, perhaps, would be of great assistance to you in the open, would they not?" She would not cease her boring gaze into him, her endless questions.

_Besides that shadow… there are many reasons I have turned onto the back roads…_ But he didn't say any of them. He just sighed and clutched at his temple, feigning tiredness. Perhaps she would get the hint and go away.

"Why do you use the mountain back roads?"

It was too much to ask for then. He reluctantly answered, with a query of his own. "Why not? The Imperial Highway…"

"… is much too crowded?" she interrupted.

He let her stare at him for a few moments longer. She was getting closer to the truth of him. Maybe he should just fess up. It would make things a lot easier. _But she might leave if she knew the truth. And why should I care if that is the case?_

"Nobody in Ferelden would hand the girl back to the Orlesians, on principal." Magalie folded her arms under her chest, shivering a little at the cool night. "We hate each other, after all."

Tristan let out another sigh. "It's not…" _It's not just her I am worried about, but Sam. _He couldn't finish his thoughts. He let them trail off into nothing.

Magalie creased her features into a frustrated frown he could plainly see even in the darkness. "You are not who you say you are. What is the truth here?"

So, she finally came out with it. "You are making something out of nothing," he said. She'd given him the opportunity to fess up, but he was a coward. He'd lived so long as Bernard, that Tristan Amell was almost nothing but a lingering memory. _A lingering nightmare_… Though now that he was back in Ferelden, it was only a matter of time before the truth came out.

"Am I?" Magalie retorted. She grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him further into the shadows, farther away from the ears of the others. "Let me list the things that don't add up."

"You don't have to do this."

"Oh _bien sur_ I have to."

"I am begging you to please, just let it go, for your own good. For Oliver. For Catriel."

But Magalie would have none of it. "You never took the lead, even though you are a natural leader, until the commandant made you. You hid your magic." Magalie sidled closer to him, so close he could feel her breasts against him. She leaned into his ear, and whispered. "You never take your clothes off." She backed away abruptly, raising her voice again. "You rarely speak of the past and when you do, you and Oliver have different stories, even though you are brothers."

He backed against a tree and turned his gaze shamefully away. Yet, still, Magalie continued.

"You're a mage and a very skilled warrior, yet you do not have the breeding of a noble – not that any noble I've seen combine the two. And not to mention, common soldiers do not have the ability you have. You did not learn that in the Ferelden army. The only thing I know to be true from you is that you are Fereldan. Just who are you, Bernard? Why were you in Orlais? Why does it seem like you are hiding, like you don't really wish to go home?"

Tristan slid down against the tree to sit on the ground. Magalie crouched onto her knees and fixed her eyes onto his own. He couldn't lie anymore. He just couldn't. And truthfully, he did not want to. It was time to shed his cloak. It was time to kill Bernard.

"I am not Bernard. Oliver is not my brother."

"Then who are you?" Magalie pushed. She rested a hand on his knee, squeezing encouragement into him.

"Just a sorry coward by the name of Tristan Amell." There. It was out. To Magalie at least. Catriel would have to be told, sooner rather than later. There was no surprised awe, not one flicker of recognition that he could discern in Magalie. But she did lean back to sit on the ground beside him, letting go of his knee in the process, and she turned away from his gaze.

"It makes sense now. I might not believe you if I had not seen you in action so many times," she said, a little breathlessly. "The Hero of Ferelden."

"Don't call me that. I am not a hero."

"The tales would beg to differ."

"The tales are not truth. I think I know who and what I am."

"Says the liar."

That annoyed him much more than he thought it could. "You have the truth now. Go to sleep."

"You are exiled from this country, on pain of death. You would risk everything, to save a girl. That is the stuff of heroes."

"Any man would do the same."

"No, not any man, not even every man. You are neither."

"What do you want from me, Magalie? I've given you the truth, now leave me in peace."

"So Oliver, he is not your brother, but there was another man exiled the same time you were – I can't quite remember his name… Longshot or something of the like. It was quite the scandal to have reached even into Orlais."

"Keep your voice down."

"It is truly amazing… I've been with the Hero of Ferelden all this time."

"You have not been anything with me. You sleep with everyone. I don't know what you want from me, why you followed me here. Maybe you knew all along who I was or you thought maybe you could get something from me. What that is, I don't know. Just go to sleep."

Magalie arose slowly. He didn't bother to look at her face. He knew he'd probably hurt her. But better to hurt her now than get her hopes up for later. He was stupid to think he could be normal again, just by shedding his cloak of lies. He was always going to be a tainted monster, living on borrowed time, no matter what name he took.

Magalie would not understand. She wouldn't want to be with him ever again if she knew what he was. She was not Brenna. And that right there, was the problem.

…

Sharp, angry words filtered through her dreamlike state until it was too much to ignore. Catriel awakened and saw that the mercenary brothers stood toe to toe in argument. She shook off her grogginess and attempted to concentrate on the words being said.

"She will sell us out now she knows the truth!" Oliver shouted in his brother's face.

Bernard stared past his brother. His weary gaze fixed on Catriel. Oliver followed it. They were hiding something. Something they didn't want her to know. Catriel stood up hastily. "What is going on?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," Bernard replied.

She looked to Oliver, instead.

"Magalie is gone."

Bernard frowned at Oliver.

"Since when?"

"Since the night. Fleeing like the Orlesian whore that she is."

"She is not a whore." Bernard frowned even harder at Oliver and then let out a pained breath. "But, I guess I shouldn't have insinuated that. This is my fault."

"She will sell us out. To the Orlesians or…" Oliver hesitated to go on, catching his tongue like he'd said too much already.

"To who?" Catriel pressed. Neither of the mercenaries answered, avoided her gaze even. She could feel the frustration growing within her, ready to flood out. "Who? You want me to trust you but how can I do that when you evade a simple question by not giving me a simple answer."

"It's not simple Cat," Oliver admitted.

Bernard straightened up. "Catriel is right. We might as well tell her." He looked long and hard at Oliver until the younger man gave a nod.

"Tell me what?" Catriel didn't like this at all. She had a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it wasn't her frustration.

"We've been living a lie for the past nine years," Bernard began. The feeling in Catriel's stomach grew into dread that spread throughout her. _This can't be good…_ "We came to Orlais, not because we wanted to, but because we had to. We were exiled from Ferelden."

"Exiled? For what?" She backed away slowly. Exile was no small matter. They must have done something heinous to be cast out of their country.

"It's not what you think," Oliver said quickly, reaching out for her. She lurched away from his outstretched hand.

"But you won't tell me?" Catriel wasn't asking, she knew they wouldn't.

"It isn't important. It is in the past," Bernard explained. He looked tired. "All that matters is now. Now we face punishment for wrongs done to us. If we are found. And there is probably a reward for our capture."

_That explains Oliver's fear of Magalie selling them out, but wrongs done to them?_ Catriel was confused. "What did you do?" she tried again.

"We didn't do anything!" Oliver threw his hands up in the air.

"Don't you dare tell me to trust you." Catriel folded her arms in anger and found herself inching backwards yet again. "What else aren't you telling me, besides the fact that you're a bunch of murdering rapists and treasonous criminals?"

She thought she saw a flicker of hurt in Oliver's eyes. Bernard just ran a hand through his hair, nervously perhaps.

"We are not brothers, by blood anyway," Bernard said as casually as if he were discussing the weather. "These are not our names."

Catriel studied them sideways. _I should have known. All they do is lie. They don't even really look alike. _"Then what are your names? Who are you really?"

"I am Tristan Amell."

Catriel turned her attention away from the tattooed man who'd spouted lies about her father. Tristan or Bernard, he was still nothing but a liar. She looked to Oliver. Disappointment ran rampant through her. He'd been bearable, for a _shem_. She'd even sort of grown fond of him. Had he been telling her nothing but lies too?

"Samuel Longshot," he said with a grin. "Sam, for short."

"Cowards!" Catriel blurted out furiously. She kicked at the ground in front of her, sending a spray of dirt their way.

"Hey!" Oliver, no Sam protested. He was about to move toward her, when Tristan held him back.

"She has every right to be angry with us. We should have told her the truth about ourselves straight away. But we didn't and that is enough for now. We should leave this place. I told Magalie we were headed towards Redcliffe, therefore I suggest we avoid that and find our way to the forest some other way. The Hinterlands, perhaps."

"You expect me to just accept this?" Catriel nearly laughed the notion was so ridiculous. Did they actually expect her to just shrug this off as nothing and continue to follow them?

"No," Tristan replied. "But we have to go."

"All those things you said about my parents – did you even really know them?"

Tristan nodded.

_Bullshit_. Another lie. How could she go on with them? If only she knew where she was, she would leave immediately. But they were in the middle of nowhere on back roads travelled by few. That had probably been part of their plan all along. Maybe they were going to kill her out there. Her escape had to come sooner than she expected.

A shame, really, since she had started to trust them – sort of. _The way a blind man trusts a stranger to help him through a fire – there's a mighty fine chance he'll get burned before he's robbed blind and left for dead. _

"Cat," Sam reached out again.

_I took a leap of faith, and fell into a chasm._

Catriel brushed past him angrily. "Let's go. We have a party of vengeful chevaliers and _lamalouis_ to outrun."

There was nothing else she could do for the moment but continue with them.


	20. Chapter Nineteen: With Eyes Wide Open

Chapter Nineteen  
With Eyes Wide Open

"Greetings, travelers."

After silently coursing their way on foot through the windy and hilly mountain path, which had gotten narrower and thicker with low hanging evergreens, they'd crested yet another hill, and run straight into a dwarven merchant. The horses whinnied in fright, not at the dwarf, but at the beast hauling his goods: a bronto.

Tristan steadied Durendal with a gentle tug on the reins. "That's a nice way you have of greeting travelers, scaring their mounts half to death."

The dwarf burst into laughter and caressed the quiet bronto's neck. The beast huffed in contentment. "There's no need to be afraid of old Stella. She is as docile as they come."

"I am not afraid." Catriel stepped forward as if she intended to get as close to the beast as possible, but Tristan pulled her back quickly. He eyed the merchant warily, not quite trusting the dwarf.

"I meant blondie over there." The dwarf pointed a finger toward Sam, who huddled close to Halteclere, dagger drawn in one hand and the other ready to pull out sword. "There's no need for daggers, topsiders, not with me anyway."

"You let that beast come anywhere near me and I will kill it, docile bitch or not."

"There won't be anything of the sort," Tristan warned Sam with a look over his shoulder.

"Thank the ancestors for that. It wasn't easy to get Stella topside. She had the worst fear of falling into the sky, worse than any dwarf I've ever known." The dwarf left the side of his bronto and came slowly toward them. "The name's Torgild, by the way."

"Falling into the sky?" Catriel asked with a curious look. She attempted to get close to the bronto again, but Tristan pulled her back once more. This time her hood, which she'd sulkily wore up since they'd revealed to her who they really were, came loose, exposing her to the dwarf.

"An elven girl and two human men – mercenaries, too if I am correct in my assumption." Torgild's eyes opened wide in surprise as he looked the group over. "Why doesn't this picture look right?"

Tristan tensed, unsure of Torgild's intent. He had to admit, they did make for an odd company. The dwarf was right to be suspicious, but it didn't mean there was anything wrong with the picture. Though Tristan wouldn't hold his breath at the dwarf's guessing. "There is nothing wrong here. We are travelers, just like you."

Tristan immediately regretted his words. He should have said nothing, for Torgild fingered his beard in thought, all the while staring in suspicion at Catriel. The girl could easily give them up for who they were. She could name them as her captors. She could say anything to get away from them like she seemed to want. Just one cry for help and Tristan had no doubt the dwarf would come to her aid. And he wouldn't blame her if it came to that. They'd lied to her all along, and even it was for her own good, she couldn't see that yet.

"Are you sure girl?" Torgild asked Catriel.

Catriel showed her hesitation when she looked back and forth between Tristan and Sam.

_Don't do it_, Tristan urged with a pleading look.

Catriel opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, not right away at least. "Merchants often carry more than just goods. What news have you?"

Tristan let out a silent breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Torgild, though his look remained suspicious, seemed to accept this bizarre trio.

"I've been in the wilderness for weeks. I am just now on my way back to Orzammar. So, I'm afraid I don't have any news at all."

Catriel gave a crestfallen sigh. No doubt, she wanted to know any news she could of the rebels. Tristan himself would like to have known why the border was left unguarded, but didn't think it a good idea to bring it up to this merchant.

"Aren't there more profitable places to trade than in the back roads of the mountains?" Tristan asked Torgild.

"Sure," Torgild agreed. "But I like the adventure of coming out here, just me and my bronto Stella. And now that you mention it, aren't there much easier paths to travel than the mountain back roads?"

"It's none of your fucking business, dwarf," Sam called out impatiently from behind. He still eyed the bronto carefully, still had his dagger out. "Just get out of our way and you can go back to your precious Orzammar."

Tristan sighed. "Though I wouldn't say it in those exact words, he is right. Shall we agree to part ways amicably, Torgild?"

Torgild chuckled before bowing his head and backing away to his bronto's side once more. "_Atrast tunsha_, topsiders." He made a swooping gesture with his hand, allowing them to pass first.

Catriel went before them, all the while watching the bronto in awe, as if she had seen a fairytale come to life. Tristan nodded for Sam to go next, which the younger man did, though he seemed twitchy and would not look at the beast of the merchant. As Tristan neared Torgild, the dwarf smiled widely, turning his eyes into small slits.

"Since we are parting amicably, I should tell you, warn you actually, that you are entering barbarian territory. The darkening skies have them on edge," he called out.

"Darkening skies?" Catriel craned her neck back, looking over her shoulder at the merchant in worry.

Tristan narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. He knew what Torgild meant. The dwarf spoke of the shadow that had helped to chase them onto this mountain path. Sam might be oblivious, Catriel may be onto something, but Tristan knew what it was. He didn't need the dwarf putting more worries at their feet. "That was not very amicable, my friend. The skies are blue."

"The skies are blue," Torgild repeated with a smirk. "And I just traded twenty dwarven-made blades to those superstitious and inhospitable barbarians."

…

The dwarven merchant's ominous words put Tristan on edge. He didn't have to ask for silence; that had been plentiful since the truth – a part of it anyway – came out. Yet, he was tense, his chest heavy with anxiety. He found himself searching the thick forest around them, the cliffs atop them, for watchful eyes, for men with long beards and horned helmets. It was bad enough they had a group of chevaliers and mercenaries on their trail, now he had to worry about the Avvars.

When he'd turned them onto this path days ago, he knew there would be a chance they would run into the fearsome, warlike tribe. He thought they lived higher up in the mountains though. The Avvars, it seemed, had other ideas.

_Armed with dwarven blades, the best kind, and with heads full of superstitious nonsense. How can I protect anyone from that? _

Tristan sliced through the low hanging branches with his sword. The sweet smell of the pine forest wafted to his nose, carried on by a light breeze that flitted through the trees. Above the canopy, behind the snowcapped peaks of the Frostbacks, the sky was blue. That did nothing to settle his nerves.

The path turned steep, inclining upwards. It was slippery and Durendal nearly pulled him down as the horse faltered slightly. Tristan righted himself and the horse and glanced back at Catriel, walking in between him and Sam. She met his gaze, frowned, and then looked away.

Tristan was relieved that she didn't sell them out to the merchant, did not cry wolf. He supposed she didn't have much choice in the matter anyway. Stay with the liars, or try to find her way back on her own. Still, he kept a wary eye on her, expecting her to attempt another runaway. He couldn't let her do that, not here in the back roads, where barbarians roamed.

It was only a matter of time, he knew, before they would be seen by those barbarians. So when he spotted movement to his left, his heart lurched into his throat. He tightened the grip on his sword, all the while feeling the mana flowing through him, wanting to burst forth.

_Not yet,_ he told himself. _Surprise the barbarians. See if they cower in fear like other peoples, or see if they truly are fearless warriors. _

He hoped they feared magic, like every other idiot raised on the chantry's words. But they had their own religion, as ancient as the land. He doubted they feared magic. Perhaps they respected it, though Tristan had the feeling that was too much to ask for.

The incline leveled. The path widened and the trees grew further out. Somehow, Tristan knew that wasn't a good thing.

_It is the perfect spot for an ambush on unsuspecting intruders._

But he wasn't unsuspecting. He spotted more movement, flashes of fur draped bodies, and glimpses of unsheathed blades. This time on either side of them. Tristan came to a stop and turned to his companions.

"Don't look, but there are men in the trees surrounding us."

Sam slowly and casually unsheathed his sword. Catriel began to turn her head to the trees.

"I said don't look. Get on the horse and be ready to flee."

Catriel stood her ground, watching him with defiant eyes. "Give me a weapon and I will fight with you."

Tristan didn't bother with decorum this time. He plunged toward Catriel and plucked her off the ground into the air. She attempted to break free of his grasp, but he tossed her onto Durendal's back. One look at the sternness of his face and the girl stopped her protests. Tristan turned back, leading the horse further onto the path, Sam doing the same by his side.

"I meant you, too," Tristan said in a low voice to Sam.

"You really think I would flee from a battle?" Sam chuckled lightly.

"This won't be a battle, Sam."

"It won't be an ambush either."

As if on cue, the Avvars began to emerge, one by one, onto the path beside them, behind them. Each one of them the perfect picture of a barbarian: long hair, longer beards, thick fur cloaks, musculature to put the most skilled soldier to shame, dirty, scarred faces, harsh gazes that would haunt the bravest men in nightmares, and swirling tribal tattoos decorating their arms – arms which held shiny, un-blooded blades. Blades which now pointed in Tristan's direction, ready for the first sacrifice to run red over them. Some came on foot, a few others sat atop shaggy mountain horses. One of them was followed by a large snarling dog, more akin to a wolf than the kinds of dogs favoured in the rest of Ferelden.

Tristan fell to Durendal's near side. He caressed the horse's neck gently. The horse's sad eyes seemed to know he was saying goodbye. With a painful sigh, he looked up to Catriel.

"Keep south and east. Leave the back roads. Follow the lake shore to Redcliffe. If we don't catch up, someone will point you in the right direction."

"But," Catriel began to protest.

Tristan didn't hear the rest of it. He slapped Durendal hard on the rump, sending the horse bolting away, the girl bouncing atop. He turned to Sam one more time, a lump inside his throat at the fading sight of his beloved horse galloping away with his niece. The niece he was supposed to get home safely.

"You should go with her," he rasped.

Sam shook his head as the barbarians closed in on them. He hopped on to Halteclere with a grin. "I wouldn't miss this fight for anything. Besides, why should you always get to be the hero?"

Tristan had thought Sam was going to gallop away after all. A little part of him was glad the younger man was going to stay and fight with him, even if he preferred Sam to get Catriel safely home. "This is not heroic, this is stupid."

_Utterly stupid_. A large barbarian lunged for him then, whooping a war cry that would put many a man to pissing in his breeches or turning around and fleeing. But for Tristan, who had become accustomed to battling all kinds of things through the years, it was a minor annoyance as he engaged the towering beast of a man.

"Lowlander," the man growled as he swung his new blade in a wide arc straight for Tristan's head. He brought his sword up to block and sparks flew as they came together in a clang. Tristan's arms shook under the weight of the other man. The barbarian was powerful, strong as a boar, and it took everything he had and more to push back. Slowly, the barbarian's sword moved further from his head.

"We are just passing through," Tristan said through gritted teeth. He blocked another wild swing from the Avvar before throwing back another quick jab of his own. The barbarian batted it away easily. "There's no need for all this hostility."

The barbarian chuckled and reformed for another attack. "Stupid lowlander."

"Drust!" A commanding cry from another barbarian. To Tristan's astonishment, the barbarian in front of him did not continue with his planned attack, in fact, he was the only one that had attacked in the first place. Sam sat atop his horse, ready for a fight that never came.

_This one must be a madcap._

"Drust!"

The barbarian in front of him, Drust must be his name, hesitated to listen to whoever shouted his name. His eyes trailed to behind Tristan. Tristan followed that gaze to see an older man, his long black hair streaked with gray, his eyes fierce, and his face lined like old leather. He wore the skin of a bear, the massive head of the thing draped over the man's head like a helmet. The bear's upper jaw was all that remained, the teeth still sharp and threatening.

"Forgive me Jarl."

And the next thing he knew, Tristan was tossed to the ground from behind. _The bastard…_ He blocked blow after blow from the crazed Drust, rolling away on the ground before finally righting himself. He caught sight of Sam, who all of a sudden was swarmed by barbarians on all sides. He had no time to worry, to wonder what happened as Sam was pulled off his horse, for Drust came for him once again. The glint of fury, no, fear in the barbarian's eyes was unnerving.

Tristan flamed his sword in an instant. The barbarian did not even flinch at the appearance of magic. If nothing, Drust came even harder at him. The blows were not only powerful, but swift, and Tristan did not have any opening. He swung back whenever he could with his flaming sword. He wondered why no one stepped in and stabbed him from behind. He was outnumbered, it would be simple.

_Perhaps the barbarians have a sense of honour after all._

He wondered what had happened to Sam. He could hear no other fight going on but his own battle with Drust. The barbarian pushed him on his heels. Tristan's sword caught the man in the arm, drawing blood.

"Drust!" the old barbarian shouted again.

_Drust must be deaf_, Tristan thought. He circled around the giant as Drust wiped his arm of blood in surprise. For a brief second, Tristan was able to see that Sam was still alive, but disarmed and kneeling at the mercy of a few barbarians. That couldn't be good.

Tristan thought of using a spell to end this one on one battle. But he found himself constantly evading the Avvar. Another flurry of attack from Drust and Tristan had enough. _The barbarians may have honour, but this has gone on too long. _He cast a spell, wasn't even sure which one, but it didn't matter, because Drust's sword absorbed everything.

Drust laughed and held the sharp edge of the blade at Tristan's throat.

_Dwarven warding runes_. He was so surprised that he'd let his guard down. The pressure at his throat turned warm as blood was drawn. Now he was surely dead.

Only Tristan decided that he wasn't going to die on this cold mountain, surrounded by barbarians, his throat slit open and his blood pooled around him, only to be eaten by animals. _Not like Brenna, not with things left unfinished_. In one swift movement he pushed his sword through the laughing Avvar's chest, kicked the now sputtering man backwards, and drew free his sword. Drust landed with a heavy thud onto the ground.

Tristan stared challengingly at the Jarl. And then something heavy came crashing into his arm, breaking his bones in a painful crunch, and he fell to the ground in a pool of Drust's blood.

…

"Curses on you four-legged beast!"

Catriel had never gained control of Durendal. The horse had a mind of its own, galloping like the wind away from everything. After she finally stopped bouncing atop the beast, she attempted to pull on the reins. The horse ignored her.

"You listen to your master, don't you?" She reached for the horse's neck and gave him a friendly pat. Durendal gave a snort in reply. "Don't listen to him this time. He needs you."

Catriel twisted around to look behind. She couldn't see them anymore – barbarians had swarmed around them. She should be glad. She should be jumping for joy. The liars were only getting what they deserved, right? Somehow, she was none of those things. Instead, she was frantic. She was worried. And her heart ached beneath her chest. She couldn't leave Tristan and Sam. If there was a chance she could be of any help to them, she had to go back.

_I owe them, in spite of everything_.

Perhaps it was a fool's errand to turn back. Here was her chance after all, to break free of the mercenaries, or, whoever they really were.

_But not like this._

"Apologies for my earlier curse, horse, but we need to turn back." Catriel pulled hard on the reins. Durendal finally stopped. She turned the horse around, though she felt like he did so without her prodding. The horse too, could not leave them behind. "We are both fools."

Durendal raced back from whence they came. The backs of the barbarians grew larger the closer they neared the ambush. Catriel's heart raced. What exactly was she going to do without any weapons? These men were large and though they did not have plate mail like the chevaliers, they were ten times as fierce. Ten times more frightening. In many ways, though, they reminded Catriel of the rebels. It was this she forced through her mind as horse and girl careened through the circle of barbarians, trampling their way to the middle.

Hard yet surprised faces focused on her. She looked back at them before catching sight of reality. Sam had been brought down on his knees. He was disarmed. Their eyes met and Catriel was ashamed. He looked stunned to see her back there, sorrowed that they had fought for nothing because like the stupid girl she was, she walked right back into the fire.

Catriel tore her gaze away from Sam and rested her eyes on something far worse. Tristan lay motionless in a pool of blood. Her shame turned to anger. Her blood boiled. She stood up slowly onto the horse, finding her balance before she launched herself at the nearest barbarian.

It was a futile effort, doomed from the start. She was but a gadfly among bulls, easily flicked away. She fell onto a wooden shield, effortlessly knocked away, and she landed hard onto the ground, dirt flying into her face. She was pulled up roughly an instant later.

"Jarl?" the barbarian holding her called out to an older looking barbarian, crouching before a dead one next to Tristan. _At least_, she smiled, _he managed to take one down with him_.

"A life for a life," the Jarl replied, straightening up from the ground. His bear cloak dripped blood from the paws, where it had dipped onto the ground. "Bring her to the village."

The barbarian pulled her away. She tried to break free. She would not be a prisoner yet again. Not ever again. Not if she could help it. The barbarian tightened his grip and she felt a small prickle in the small of her back – the tip of a blade. She ceased her struggles, for the time being.

"And these?"

The Jarl flicked his hard gaze over Sam. "Their bodies will fatten the crows."

"No," Catriel whimpered. She looked over her shoulder to see a sword pointed at the back of Sam's neck. Catriel could see nothing else as the barbarian forest swallowed her up.


	21. Chapter Twenty: Whispering Winds

Chapter Twenty  
Whispering Winds

_Safe?_

The barbarian marched her up the steep trail, not caring that she was tired. Not caring that her back ached from her fall, or that the pace he was setting was too much for her legs.

_Out of harm's way?_

Catriel slipped on a tiny, moss covered rock. Her arms flew out in front of her to break her fall. The barbarian grunted impatiently before hauling her up and butting the small of her back with the pommel of his sword.

"_Ayoye_," Catriel muttered under her breath. The pommel was rock hard and contained a sharp, tiny gem – totally innocent looking when it wasn't jabbed into you. She'd already learned that to speak up on the trail meant many a painful jab with that pristine little gem.

_Not safe, but dangerous, perilous. _

Too late Catriel realized how good she'd had it with the mercenaries, even if they were liars – perhaps even vile criminals for all she really knew of them. Yet, despite all that, they'd never treated her this harshly.

_Not like this anyway._

She looked over her shoulder to glare at the barbarian. His long hair fell down to his waist like ropes. His beard was nearly as long. Tattoos swirled around his bulging biceps and he wore the fur of an animal atop his shoulders. His glare was daggered, his eyes were fierce. Somebody with sense would be afraid of him, look away, and meekly obey him. But Catriel had lost all sense. She'd curbed her tongue, but that didn't meant she would go willingly. The barbarian ignored her look before pushing her to ascend the trail quicker.

_Safe._ She'd felt safe with Tristan and Sam. She was only now beginning to see that they'd never meant her any harm. She couldn't say the same for the barbarians.

_A life for a life…_ Did that mean hers?

_Their bodies will fatten the crows…_ Were they dead? Was it really so?

She couldn't bear the thought.

_I have to break free. I have to go back._

The barbarians rushed her up the trail. There were no openings, no opportunities to run. The trail was steep and narrow. Many times she glanced sideways off the trail, and many times she realized how high they were ascending. If she darted away, she'd most likely fall to her death. They were bringing her to their village. She would be a prisoner among strangers once more.

There was something strange going on though. With each step, one or more of the barbarians would glance up at the sky, and each time, worry would overcome the harsh features of their faces. She wondered what they were afraid of. Barbarians were not afraid of anything, or so she'd been told. It only made her more anxious to get away.

After a long, climbing march, the barbarian village finally came into view. The barbarians loosened up a little, trading a few barbs with each other with their home in sight. Still others remained solemn. They had lost one of their own after all.

Catriel took in the view of the village with impressed eyes. She had been expecting a few hovels, perhaps a bit of decorative skulls on pikes to mark the limits of the village. Instead, the village rested atop a cliff, protected by a stockade as tall as the trees it was made from, jutting high into the air, the snowcapped peaks of the Frostbacks looming behind, and the cliff below it sheer and dangerous. It was a wooden fortress, a wooden keep – impenetrable to all but the bravest. The high wooden doors creaked open and the barbarian column made their way home.

Inside, it was a simple village. No hovels, but many log houses, long and narrow, bigger than any houses Catriel had ever seen, though she could hardly claim to have seen many dwellings in her lifetime. Smoke curled from fires within the large houses into the blue sky. Though it was summer, the mountain air remained cool, and the wind chill. Dirty, ragged children stared at her with large, curious eyes and huge, wolf-like dogs loped at their heels. Women greeted their husbands with looks as harsh as the men. Totems stood guard in the middle of everything, watching everything. The barbarian shoved her in front of one of the giant wooden structures, carved with the face of a crow or perhaps a raven. It was hard to tell. She only knew that it had a mocking look.

Catriel collected herself up. "What are you going to do with me?"

The barbarian gave no answer. He didn't even tie her up, like she was expecting. She was beginning to think she was going to have to expect the unexpected from these people. They were nothing like they were made out to be in the tales she'd heard of them from Lethra.

"I'm almost one of you, you know. I was practically raised in these mountains."

The barbarian looked her over in disbelief. Catriel was surprised the man could form a facial expression other than the glower he'd been giving her all through the trail.

"Well, on the other side – the Orlesian side," Catriel continued.

"There are no elves in the Frostbacks." The barbarian said it as if it were an undisputed fact and she were nothing but a silly child.

_Well, maybe he is right. Maybe I am a silly child. _She stood straighter, taller. She'd already proven herself no child. She tired of constantly reminding people. "There are," she countered the barbarian.

"Then what were you doing with the lowlanders?" the barbarian retorted. A mocking grin spread across his weathered face. "Why are you so far from home, from your people?"

"I was kidnapped!" It was a lie, a horrible lie. It hurt to say it, after all they'd done for her. But if they were… dead… then it was hurting nobody.

The barbarian turned away, finished it seemed, with the conversation. Catriel balled her fists tightly. The barbarian had not answered her. What was to happen to her? Why did he not even tie her up if she was to be a prisoner?

_There is no escape from this village_, she thought as she scanned around, captivated once again by the sheer size of the stockade. _This is my cage_.

"Wait!" Catriel rushed forward, tugging at the barbarian's arm. He flicked her away but came to a stop just the same. Encouraged by this, Catriel did not shy away. "I wish to speak to your leader."

"The Jarl has no time for children. He must prepare for the ceremony."

A shudder of inexplicable fear coursed through Catriel's limbs. "What ceremony?"

"At sundown, we will have a funeral for Drust ap Arthfael. Then, when the sun rises, we will have the sacred rites of Hakkon Wintersbreath."

Catriel could not hide her confusion. "Drust?"

"The man your kidnappers slew."

"Oh…" She remembered then, the pool of blood. The dead man next to Tristan. Perhaps that blood was all Drust's… but it didn't matter did it? The Jarl had said they were to die. Surely it had been done already. She turned her thoughts elsewhere, she couldn't afford to wallow in regret. "And Hakkon Wintersbreath, he is one of your gods?"

A dark look crossed over the face of the Avvar. Catriel did not miss the man casting his eyes upwards to the sky. "I have no time for this." The man turned away once more. His stride was long and quick. Catriel did not let him get away so easily however.

"Wait!" She jogged by his side. "Please. Let me speak with your Jarl. It won't take long."

The barbarian cast an annoyed look in her direction, but his hesitation was visible in the slowing of his pace. Catriel felt emboldened.

"Please, tell him I am the daughter of Eirlys."

The barbarian halted. Was that a flicker of recognition? She'd taken a chance saying that. Her mother wandered far and wide, mostly in her youth, but Catriel didn't know if she'd ever met with the Avvars. They were not a people to reckon with, not a people to take lightly.

He grunted. "I will pass the request on to the Jarl. Whether or not he will see you…" He picked up his long stride again. "Stay here." There was no room for argument this time, as the man clearly made a show of brushing his hand against the pommel of his sword and the sharp little gem encrusted into it.

Catriel sighed and plopped herself down onto the ground to wait.

…

The Jarl decided to see her after all. Catriel wasn't sure if he would take her seriously or if perhaps she was just there for his amusement. Either way, she resolved to make a strong case for herself. The same barbarian that had prodded her up the mountain prodded her into the largest house in the village – the Jarl's hall. With one last backward glance at the man before he disappeared, she entered into the hall.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the hall, she noticed its high ceiling, the hunting trophies propped onto the wall, beside what she assumed to be war trophies – old swords and shields, some bearing the heraldry of well known Ferelden houses, not that Catriel could recognize which ones they belonged to. She only knew they were noble. Benches were pushed to the side, leaving room for a large fire at the center of the room. A row of hanging hides made another, private, room at the back. It smelled of earth, leather, and sweat, not that different from her cavern.

_Filthy, really, but homey. _A wave of homesickness threatened to overwhelm her, to throw her courage to the wind. But she straightened up and searched for the Jarl.

He sat behind the fire, a woman by his side. She was old, perhaps his wife. Her eyes were red rimmed like she had recently been crying. As Catriel moved forward, the woman fled behind the hide curtains at the back.

"Sit." The Jarl motioned with his hand toward a fur directly in front of him.

Catriel did as told, though she infused herself with an air of defiance, making sure it was visible to this leader of barbarians. Somehow, Catriel found that if she could ignore the dead bear the man wore atop his head, she wouldn't be afraid of him. Not as much anyway, for his face was still fierce even without it.

"I am Arthfael," he said, unaffected by her defiant look.

Catriel caught her breath. She heard that name from the other barbarian. _He is the father of Drust._ She felt a stab of sorrow through her heart. Death was everywhere. Death was life. What of Oli- Sam? Tristan? "I am sorry your son died."

A sob could be heard from beyond the hides, and then quickly it was stifled. The Jarl grimaced with the same heartfelt sorrow that Catriel felt. "That is the way of things in the mountains. Nothing is permanent."

_I know this… now_, she reflected.

She felt the Jarl's gaze upon her. His look of sorrow was gone, as fleeting as the life of his son. He studied her with furrowed brows. "You are the daughter of the Dalish wanderer, Eirlys?"

Catriel nodded solemnly. "Yes, I am Catriel."

The Jarl tapped his fingers on his knees in thought. After a moment, he reached up and pulled the bear skin off. He wasn't so imposing anymore. He was just a man, tired and grieving. "Your mother is known to us. She visited among our tribe for a short time."

Catriel leaned forward excitedly. Her earlier gamble had paid off. "See, she's a friend to you. You must let me go."

The Jarl's expression turned angry. "You take me for a fool, that I must do what a girl says?"

Catriel backed away. "Apologies, I…"

"Eirlys is a friend. But you – you attacked us alongside the lowlanders."

"Unsuccessfully." Catriel lowered her eyes, attempting to bring about a look of submission. Perhaps a show of regret would help her cause. "Foolishly… childishly."

"I am not in a forgiving mood today." Arthfael sighed, reining in his anger. "But since you are only a child, until she fetches you herself, you shall remain here. As she is our friend, I would not let you go, not with the darkening skies approaching."

Catriel's shoulders slumped in defeat. Her mother might not ever come for her. She might be dead. And there it was again – talk of darkening skies. "Then what are you going to do with me?"

The Jarl glanced over his shoulder to the hide door behind. "Etosa," he called out.

A young woman, not much older than Catriel, pushed through the hides, as if she had been standing there with her ear to the hides all along, listening. She kneeled at the Jarl's side, her long, glossy black hair cascading over her shoulders at the movement.

"Take charge of the girl," Arthfael commanded.

Etosa nodded once before her eyes rested on Catriel. The blue irises were not unkind, but neither were they friendly. "Yes, Jarl." Etosa stood up, walked over to Catriel, and simply said, "Come."

The Jarl was clearly finished with her. She thought of protesting some more, but Arthfael was already arising, leaving to do whatever Jarl's did. Disappointed that he'd not met with her for long, Catriel followed the barbarian girl outside.

The light was blinding after the short visit indoors. Etosa whistled sharply and one of the many wolf-like dogs hanging about the village came loping from around the corner. The barbarian girl knelt briefly to ruffle the dog's neck before standing up and striding away from the Jarl's hall. Catriel rushed to keep up. The barbarian girl was blessed with much longer legs than she was. Not to mention the dog kept running in front of her as she ran to keep up with Etosa.

"Where are you taking me?" Catriel asked. She wondered if she was to be locked up somewhere. An image flashed through her mind – Etosa raising a sword high into the air and then bringing it swiftly down onto a neck. _My neck_. Catriel shook her mind of the silly thoughts. The Jarl had said Etosa was to take charge of her. That surely didn't mean _killing_ her. Would it? Her mother may have been a friend to Arthfael, but Catriel had certainly not impressed him one bit. And the villagers – they sent looks of pity her way, like they knew she was going to her death.

Etosa, unfortunately, did not answer. She continued through the village, ignorant it seemed of everything around her. Unless perhaps, she was purposely ignoring everything. Maybe the pitiful, sympathetic looks were not for Catriel, but for Etosa. Just who was this barbarian girl?

"Etosa," Catriel attempted to gain the attention of the girl.

It didn't work. Etosa headed for a set of steps leading up the ramparts of the stockade. She went up them without looking back, without checking to see if Catriel still followed.

_Where would I run off to, anyway?_

Catriel warily followed the barbarian girl. The dog obediently stayed below. She buried the next notion she had of an impending death – her being tossed over the stockade to splatter all over the cliff. Catriel had her own cliff back home she loved to climb down. This one, however, she wouldn't dare try to climb down.

_Only if my life depended on it._ She suppressed a shudder as she looked over the stockade. The cliff was so steep she could not even see it from her vantage point. Catriel turned her attention to Etosa. The girl watched her closely, curiously, as if Catriel were a rare oddity. Conscious that she was somewhat of an oddity in these parts, and suddenly shy of all things – she was never _shy_ – Catriel pulled her hood up and covered her ears.

Etosa finally spoke. "You looked confused when the Jarl spoke of the darkening skies. I wished to show you."

Catriel looked out, above the cliff this time, and saw nothing but a frozen lake, and a cloudless, endless blue sky. "Is this some sort of trick?"

"That lake over there, it was not frozen. It is the hot season after all, and although the peaks remain snowcapped throughout the year, the lake does not. Until He came. It froze in a blink of the eye."

"He? Are you trying to scare me?"

"No, I can see you do not frighten easily. I only wish to show you the truth."

Catriel lifted a confused brow. "What truth?"

Etosa closed her eyes and shifted her face to the wind, strong atop the ramparts, and blowing from the direction of the strangely frozen lake. "Can you hear it?"

"Hear what?" By the gods, Catriel didn't know what to think of Etosa. Was the girl crazy or was she just trying to fool her, to scare her into meek submission?

"Listen to the wind," Etosa replied.

Catriel could hear nothing but the wind whipping against her hood, howling through the fabric each time it picked up speed. Etosa opened her eyes. She reached her hands towards Catriel and Catriel stepped backward, her gut twisting in fear as she thought the girl meant to push her over the stockade. But Etosa only shook her head ever so slightly before pushing Catriel's hood away. Catriel's hair came blowing free in the wind.

"Close your eyes," Etosa commanded.

Catriel hesitated. _It could be a trick_, she thought. When Etosa closed her own eyes again, Catriel took a deep breath and did the same. At first, the lack of a hood and the shutting of her eyes made no difference. She could hear nothing but the wind. And then, something became faintly audible; a screech, or a roar, by a creature she never heard in her short life. She shivered, not from the cold wind, but from the fear that sound sent rippling through her body. Her eyes flashed open.

A flock of birds flooded the sky in the far distance. They flew away from the frozen lake, away from the deafening roar.

"What was that?" Catriel asked.

Etosa opened her eyes wide and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Hakkon Wintersbreath."

The name of the old god carried on the wind to Catriel. She stood still, confusion on her face as she stared at the barbarian girl in disbelief. The birds reached overhead them now, emitting a chorus of squawks. Etosa watched them fly over her village before turning her eyes onto Catriel.

"Hakkon Wintersbreath casts a long shadow. His breath is cold, freezing everything it touches instantly, even in the dead of the hot season. For thousands of years, the mountains have been his home. Now, he awakens, stirs from his long slumber. And now, the world shall tremble beneath him. We shall appease him, and he will leave us alone. A proper sacrifice must be made."

"But Hakkon Wintersbreath is a god." She almost said he didn't exist. But the look Etosa gave her stopped her from saying anything offending.

Etosa's look remained serious, unperturbed by the disbelief of Catriel. "He is a fierce god when he desires to be so. He has taken on another form."

"But why?"

"Why do the gods do anything?" Etosa looked far off into the distance, past the frozen lake to the snowcapped peaks. "They are never merciful. Nothing is permanent."

That was the second time in a day that Catriel heard that phrase. _Nothing is permanent._ Somehow, that made all the difference to Catriel. Everything became clear. Etosa spoke of the man that was killed. Perhaps Drust was her brother. She was crazy with grief. The rambling about a god was a cover up. That's all this had to be about. "You knew Drust?"

"He was my husband." Etosa said it with no emotion.

That definitely explained the looks of pity sent her way. Catriel could hardly believe that Etosa had been married to Drust. She seemed so young. And it didn't seem like she grieved at all, unless she was hiding it.

"Then why do you not beat your breast, pull out your hair, and cry out in sorrow?" Catriel asked. Wasn't that what wives did when they were widowed?

"When my people marry, we have a tradition involving knots. The woman will sing a hymn to the gods while the man attempts to untie as many knots from a rope as he can. When the woman is finished singing, the number of knots the man has untied tells everyone how many years the marriage will last for."

"Drust was not handy?"

Etosa chuckled for the first time since they met. It was a charming, musical laugh. "I chose a short hymn, and you are right. Drust was not very handy, at least at untying knots. He only undid one knot. I was expecting my marriage to be over this year… though not in this way."

"You chose a short hymn? On purpose?"

Etosa wavered. "I don't know why I am telling you this."

"You didn't want to marry Drust." Catriel admired the girl's cunning. The barbarians were so superstitious, even if Drust hadn't died, Etosa probably could have gotten the marriage dissolved some other way.

Etosa bit her lip, probably regretting revealing so much of herself. She turned slightly away and brushed her hair behind her ears. Round and small. _So unlike my own. _

"You would willingly take charge of me after my – _kidnappers_ – killed your husband?"

Etosa raised a brow. She certainly was cunning, Catriel hated to admit.

"You know they are not really my kidnappers, don't you?"

"No sane person would come to the aid of their kidnappers. So, either you are insane, or you are a liar. I choose to believe that you are lying."

"Not a liar?" Catriel smirked.

"Not a liar, only lying."

Catriel sighed. "They are – were – taking me away from everything I know, to somewhere they say – said – is home."

"Barbarian or elf, Avvar or Dalish, it is always the same for a girl, is it not?" Etosa's face finally showed signs of open sorrow. "I was taken away from home and brought here to seal an alliance between tribes. No one thought to ask me how I felt."

"Exactly," Catriel said enthusiastically. "Only, I hope they weren't meaning to marry me off…" _By the gods, what if that is so? I cannot marry. For all my protestations of being a child no longer, I am not ready to marry._

"I'm sure it is not so," Etosa reassured her. "Your people are not in the habit of trading away daughters in the name of alliances. At least, not from the little I hear of them." She looked sad, like she wanted to know more of the world, but was stuck here on this cold mountain for the rest of her life to be traded away as seen fit. Catriel imagined that is how she herself would look if she were in Etosa's boots.

"What is to happen to you now?" Catriel asked.

"I will go to my husband's funeral and then… only the Lady of the Skies knows what my future holds."

"I wish to go home." Catriel wanted her mother. She wanted to be a part of the rebellion. She didn't want to go to her supposed _father_. Now, that wasn't going to happen. She didn't want to stay with the barbarians. She might be there forever.

"I, too, but for now, I must help my mother-in-law tend to my husband's body. She must be waiting. Follow."

Catriel reached a hand toward Etosa, resting it on her shoulder. The barbarian girl looked puzzled, like the gesture was foreign to her. "You can make your own future. The gods do not destine everything."

Etosa eyed her thoughtfully before finally she spun around and made her way down from the ramparts. With one last look at the frozen lake, and a trickle of wonderment in how much Etosa said was truth and how much was meant to scare her into obedience, Catriel followed. She hoped with all her heart the barbarian girl would consider her words. Perhaps, they could flee this place together.

Catriel studied the layout of the village as she followed Etosa. She seared it into her mind to study, hoping to formulate a plan of escape. Her thoughts at one point were interrupted by a familiar neigh. She turned her head to a muddy pen. Her heart fell suddenly as she came to a halt. Halteclere and Durendal paced away from the barbarians, a dangerous look in their eyes as they kicked away at the ground. They did not want to be handled by these strangers.

Etosa looked over her shoulder to Catriel. "They are fine creatures, suitable sacrifices for a god."

"Sacrifices?" Catriel asked, alarm in the tone of her voice.

Etosa regarded her with regret. "To Hakkon Wintersbreath."

"Oh."Catriel's eyes lingered in the direction of Durendal and Halteclare as Etosa came back to collect her. The ceremony was real then. The strange screech… perhaps it wasn't a trick of Etosa after all. The poor beasts. They didn't deserve that. She'd even grown quite fond of them. As she followed Etosa to the barbarian girl's duty, though, Catriel couldn't help feeling a stab of guilt for the relief that flooded her.

_Better them than me_.

"Come along, ptarmigan."

Etosa dragged her away from the heartbreaking scene.


	22. Chapter TwentyOne: Rude Awakenings

**Warning: foul** **language** **ahead.**  
You've been warned.  
-artemiskat

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One  
Rude Awakenings

"Tristan… Tristan!"

Who was calling his name so frantically? Who in the Maker's name was shaking him awake? Surely, he had a few more minutes before the droning, monotone enchanter's lessons were to begin? He shoved away the culprit, but the movement sent a shooting pain through his left arm. His eyes flew open.

_This is not the Circle._

"Sam?" he asked in confusion. He clutched at his arm, the pain pulsating underneath his chainmail. No, he was definitely not in the Circle Tower. He was in the mountains, his arm bashed in by the maul of an Avvar. He let the healing magic flow out of his hand into his arm. The pain slowly went away and he found that he could rotate his arm, but he was tired.

"Tristan!"

He turned to Sam, sprays of blood covering the man's dirty Crimson Knight uniform. "Are you hurt?"

Sam shook his head and nodded to over his shoulder. Two dead Avvars lay in a pool of blood.

"You killed them? How…"

"Most of them were anxious to get away. They didn't stay for the show. These ones were… not that difficult to put away. I have a few dirty tricks up my sleeve."

"Daggers, more likely." Tristan hauled himself up from the ground slowly. He attempted to blink away his lethargy. It didn't work. "Then you saved me. Thank you."

Sam grinned, flashing a glimpse of his hidden daggers. "You're welcome."

"Where is Catriel? Please tell me she got away."

Sam's smile faded into a frown. "She came back and the bastards got her."

Tristan let out a sigh of frustration. Why was the girl so stubborn?

"She must really be your niece," Sam went on, as if he'd read Tristan's thoughts and was answering. "She rode Durendal right into the middle of everything. When she saw you in the pool of blood and passed out, I'm pretty sure she thought you were dead. She got furious and jumped onto one of them. Unlike you though, she's too small to make any difference."

Why did she come back? Why couldn't she have fled, like she was told, like she had always wanted? Her one chance to get away and she gave it up, for a pair of liars. Tristan had to get her back. He couldn't let anything happen to her. He'd made a promise to her mother to see her home safely and by the Maker, he would see that promise through. "Maker only knows what they will do with her. Did you see where they went?"

"Fucking right I did." He nodded toward a pair of shaggy horses, left behind by the barbarians. "Our new rides."

"Then there's no time to waste."

Tristan went over to the horses. They were smaller and their coats were longer than Durendal and Halteclere's, but they were clearly made for the cold mountains and the steep ascents. Sam remained where he'd been, though he started pacing back and forth angrily.

"Those mother fucking barbarians won't know what hit them. I'll cut them like they've never been cut before. I'll fuck them with my sword. Tear their innards out with my dagger and scatter them into the wind. Right after I cut off their cocks and shove them into their bitch mouths. Bastards will wish they were never born to their whore mothers. Fucking assholes."

"Really?" Tristan arched a curious brow toward the younger man and his tirade. "Is that all Sam?"

Sam wiped away some of the blood that dripped over his armor. "Fuck no. Once I finish ridding the world of their sorry asses, I will feed their useless piece of shit remains to my horse."

Tristan gave a tired sigh. "I doubt Halteclere would want that, wherever he is."

"Then let the fucking crows have them." Sam made an angry sweeping gesture with his hands towards the sky.

"I'm quite sure that is already an Avvar funeral ritual. They leave their dead out on a rock to be pecked at and consumed by the birds, returning them to the sky. Or so I've heard." Finn the mage's encyclopedic rants had been tiresome, but not nearly as much as Sam's cursing, flamboyant speeches of planned vengeance. He could feel his head beginning to pound slowly, the start of yet another headache. At least Finn's rambles had been useful.

"Then I'll fucking eat them. Bloody barbarians, it's no wonder why nobody likes them with rituals like that."

Tristan climbed onto one of the shaggy mountain horses. The beast was surprisingly biddable. He sent Sam a disapproving look. "Resorting to cannibalism now, are we? Are you sure you're not the barbarian here?"

Sam glimpsed at the dead Avvars behind him. His shoulders slumped and he let out a deep breath. "No. I'm just running my mouth."

"Is that it then?"

Sam nodded. "I'm done."

"Good, now we can get on with this."

_That filthy mouth… Melisende will kill me for letting that happen… if we ever meet again._

…

Night in the Frostbacks was a cold, harsh bitch to get caught in unprepared. Even under all that armour, Tristan shivered atop his mount. It was no wonder the barbarians ran around wearing animal fur even during the summer. Tristan could use a nice warm cloak just about now. Sam, on the other hand, looked no worse for wear atop his shaggy mount. The younger man led them up a steep trail, quiet and purposeful for once, without any indication that he was freezing.

_Maybe I'm just old_, Tristan thought with an inward chuckle.

Sam came to a stop and motioned with his head to the distance ahead of them. The stars had long ago been obscured by clouds. Tristan's eyes had already become accustomed to the shadowy darkness so that he could plainly see in the dark any obstacles in their way. And this… was a big one.

The glow of a fire could be seen reaching into the dark night. It rested atop a sheer cliff, surrounded by a tall and seemingly impenetrable wooden stockade. _The Avvar village_. Just how were they going to get in?

"We should have taken a hostage," Sam said, clearly seeing the same problem Tristan was seeing.

"Unlike Jader, there were none at hand." Tristan dismounted from the shaggy horse. "You killed them all, remember?"

Sam shrugged with an air of nonchalance. "It was us or them."

Tristan studied their surroundings. They certainly couldn't walk up to the gates, knock, and beg to be let in. They wouldn't be welcome, not after killing three of their men. Two of which the Avvars did not even know had fallen, though perhaps the barbarians might be suspicious by now for their fellows' long absence.

"We could have taken the dead barbarians' clothing and disguised ourselves," Sam said.

"And be noticed for strangers as soon as we got in." Tristan spotted a very tall pine tree within the village. Perhaps he could create a diversion of sorts. Distract the barbarians enough that they could creep inside. It seemed like a good idea, maybe the only option they had at this point, until he felt a wave of fatigue overcome him. He held his hand out just the same.

"Magic?" Sam asked.

That was his intention, yet Tristan suddenly found it hard to cast anything. It felt like his mana was drained or soon to be. He concentrated hard, dipping into the Fade for something, anything. They had to get in the village. They needed to get Catriel out safely. _Come on_, Tristan urged his body to comply. He forced the mana to gather and eventually, finally, a bolt of lightning flashed out, hurled toward the tall pine, cracking it in half. It fell slowly, against the wind, and onto the stockade, creating an instant commotion.

Tristan slumped against the horse, catching his breath. "Sam, can you get inside?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Sam slid down from his horse, ready to get into the impossibly defended barbarian village.

"Be careful."

"I know, I know, the girl."

"And you, too. I'll keep them distracted out here."

Sam whacked him hard on the shoulder and started off.

"Sam," he called out. Sam looked over his shoulder. "Be quick."

His arm felt numb, his mana fading. Using so much magic, after so long a time using little – it was draining him. He couldn't get into the village, no matter how much he wanted to. He knew he would only be a liability. He prayed that Sam could get in and out quickly, without injuring himself or putting the girl in harm's way.

Tristan dragged the two horses into the bushes to wait. The barbarians would come out and see what the fuss was all about – if he could manage to create another diversion that is.

…

Etosa had left her alone. Etosa had left a crude dagger in plain view. Its hilt was carved bone, the blade sharpened obsidian. Catriel took it and crept out into the night. She whispered her thanks to Etosa, a kindred spirit – a human, a barbarian.

_Imagine that. The gods are funny._

The young woman had given her a way to escape. And by the gods, Catriel was not going to waste it. A little part of her was disappointed, however, that Etosa chose to stay. Burying that feeling away, she crept away from the Jarl's hall, empty now with everyone at the funeral. She couldn't force the girl to flee from the only life she ever knew, and she would never do that. She knew how it felt to be pressed into something you did not want, and it was not a nice feeling in the least.

She kept to the shadows, the dagger held tightly in the clutches of her hand as she ran. She wasn't quite sure how she was going to get out of the village – all she had studied earlier in the day becoming hard to recall in her rush to get out – but all that mattered was that she had a chance now. A chance at freedom.

_Revas._

A keening wail cut through the relative silence of the night. Catriel halted and melted further into the shadows, her heart stammering underneath her chest. It was only the women, mourning the loss of Drust. Catriel briefly pondered if Etosa were one of the voices ripping through the dark. She choked back her own emotions threatening to pour out at all she lost.

_Now is not the time._

She started in fright at something brushing against her hand. It was one of the dogs.

"Go away," she told it. The dog growled. _Mythal, let it not bark._ "Shh. Leave me alone beast."

She contemplated using the dagger on the dog. If it barked, she would be caught. Everything would be ruined. She would hate to hurt the animal, but if it came down to it, she had no other choice. Fortunately for her, she would not have to kill the dog. Andruil must have felt her hesitation, must have wanted the animal to live, for a large cracking sound distracted the hound and she slipped away from the hound.

The crack turned into a creaking, moaning sound, and Catriel stopped to look in the direction from whence the noise came from. She saw a tree toppling over slowly, heading for the stockade where a few men on the ramparts jumped out of the way onto the ground before the tree split right in two as it hit the sharp, staked top of the stockade.

"By the Dread Wolf," Catriel mouthed. She was curious to see what had caused the great pine to fall, but her prayers were answered. Time, or lack thereof, would not allow her to stick around and watch. The barbarians that had moments ago been manning the ramparts rushed to the gates and opened them. It was her only chance. She could creep away. If she made it in time, she wouldn't have to climb down the steep cliff. Catriel broke into a run, rounding a log house in order to stay hidden.

As she rounded the corner, she ran straight into a solid weight. A man. Her hopes were dashed as the man held onto her arms, pushing her back into the shadows she came from. She struggled to get away, to plunge the dagger into her captor's heart. She would not be taken again.

_Never again._

"Easy there, Cat."

_What?_ Only a few people ever called her Cat. She didn't think that most of the barbarians even knew her name. She ceased her struggling and looked up. "Sam?"

She was sure he was grinning, though the shadows of the night warped it into something else. Something almost frightening, like he was only a revenant.

"You're alive!" She backed away, though, afraid this was some trick of Fen'Harel. "I saw a sword pressed at your neck. How did you get out of that?"

"There's no time for explanations, Cat, just come with me."

"I don't need rescuing." She was furious, yet she was relieved. Somehow, he stood before her, living and breathing, and he had come back for her, had made it into the impossible to penetrate wooden fortress. How? Why?

He cocked an eyebrow at her and released his hold on her. "No?"

"I was already on my way out."

"Oh, well…" Sam scratched his head in thought. "In that case…"

Catriel shoved Sam out of her way. "I don't need rescuing, but the horses do."

"The horses… why?"

Catriel glanced around the corner. The gates were still open, for the moment at least. "You don't want to know."

"Are you trying to spare my feelings?" Sam asked, pulling her back into the shadows.

"Yes," Catriel answered, exasperated. "I am actually trying to spare _your feelings_."

A grin spread over Sam's face. "Then we can't let anything happen to Halteclere or Durendal. Tristan would be a sad man if that horse came to harm."

"He's alive?"

"Oh, if I got a sovereign every time somebody asked that, I'd be a rich man." At the look of confusion Catriel sent him, Sam continued on a slightly more serious note. "Of course he's alive. He always manages to come back from the dead."

These two men were very fortunate it seemed to Catriel. They managed to get out of an ambush. Before that, they managed to rescue her from certain death and evade a horde of mercenaries and chevaliers. The gods really must smile upon them, for whatever reason. Perhaps it would be a good thing for Catriel to stick around with them for a little while longer, at least until they got out of the Ferelden side of the gods forsaken mountain range. "Good. Follow me, I know where they are."

She sprinted back into the night, in the open this time. The barbarians were too distracted to notice. Something was going on outside of the gates, but she was too intent on reaching the pen to really notice what. She spotted the silhouettes of the horses, standing unawares of the chaos beyond the pen.

"Halteclere," Sam whispered loudly, hopping over the wooden fence into the pen. The horse flicked its ears once, huffed loudly and then trotted toward its master. Durendal followed curiously. The barbarians had managed to remove most of their things from the horses, though the packs lay lined on the side.

"Your things," Catriel pointed out.

Sam looked to where she pointed. "Help me gather whatever we can. We need to be quick. Tristan is waiting, holding them off at the gates."

Catriel found her own leather pack, hugged it to her chest, inhaled the well-known smell of old leather, and slung it over her shoulder. Sam shoved some other packs onto each horse. They saw a dog run by, barking madly.

"Forget the rest. Let's get out of here." Sam climbed onto Halteclere and nodded toward Durendal.

But Catriel climbed up behind Sam. She held tightly to him, sinking her cheek into his back, breathing in the scent of him, so different from anything she'd ever known, but now so familiar. So safe.

"Are you trying to squeeze the life out of me, Cat?" he asked, puzzlement in his voice.

"No," she replied, her mouth curving into a smile.

"Ah, I see," he teased. "You missed me."

She didn't answer that. Halteclere was impatient to go, Durendal kicked dust into the dark, and yet Sam hesitated to advance.

"Sam," Catriel ventured. "I'm guessing that you killed to get here. No more killing, please?"

"What? What happened to the girl who called for the head of an Orlesian?"

"They were kind to me. They are friends of my mother. And though I doubt they will ever consider me a friend after tonight… there has been enough death. And there is something far worse they have to face."

"Worse than my wrath?"

She felt his chuckle through his armor and she nodded, though he could not see the motion, she was sure he would feel it. "Yes."

He sighed. "All right then. We'll make a dash for it, though I wish you would consider riding Durendal…"

"No arrows will find my back." _The gods only know why, but I feel safe with you_, she didn't say. "My mother is their friend. This is for your own protection, Sam. They won't fire at me, and so there is no danger for you if I ride with you."

"I am flattered, Cat."

"Don't let it get to your head. We should ride now. You said Tristan is waiting for us."

"That I did." He hesitated a moment longer before he gave in and set the horse into motion. "Onward Halteclere!"

Halteclere burst into speed, jumping over the fence of the pen. Catriel glanced over her shoulder to see Durendal do the same. She tightened her hold around Sam and closed her eyes. All of the dogs in the village seemed to be barking now, running after the crazed horses their masters were supposed to sacrifice to a merciless god on the morrow. What would they do now?

When she opened her eyes, she saw they had interrupted the funeral of Drust. The village watched wide eyed as the elven girl fled from them on a horse behind a Fereldan who was supposed to be dead.

_Gods forgive us for interrupting the funeral._

She wasn't very sorry though. The gates remained opened. A few more paces and they were through it, and there was nothing the barbarians could do that would stop them, short of shooting them down. And that, like Catriel had hoped and betted on, they did not do. They had a far bigger thing to worry about than her.

_Hakkon Wintersbreath._

…

A nudge on his side. An outward huff of breath. Another nudge, this time under his arm. Tristan awakened to find his horse, his beloved horse, hovering over him. He'd fallen and passed out, running away from the barbarians after he drew them away from their village. His magic had waned. To run was the only thing he could have done. But it had distracted them from Sam, or so he'd hoped. The Avvars hadn't followed him for long, strangely giving up after a little while, but he'd continued to run, until he tripped over something in the dark and fell down a hill, rolling over thorns and rocks, and coming to a halt just in front of a babbling brook.

_At least it hadn't been a cliff_. With a groan of pain, he pulled himself up into a sitting position. He pressed at his side. _Just a few bruises, it could be worse._

It didn't occur to Tristan to be surprised that his horse had found him. Durendal had disappeared before, after an unlucky battle with another band of mercenaries had seen Tristan unhorsed. The horse had found his way back to Tristan then as he did now. And so he climbed onto Durendal, wondering where Sam and Catriel were, and if they had managed to make it out of the Avvar village.

Surely, if Durendal was there, they were around somewhere. Unless he was actually dead and this was the Fade. Yet, there was nothing blurry, nothing out of the ordinary. It only seemed to be just a foggy, misty morning. And he felt fine, really. He was no longer so tired. The blackout after the tumble must have seen to his regeneration. Then again… feeling so fine, maybe he _was_ dead.

Stifling his ludicrous thoughts, he gave Durendal the signal to move ahead. The horse trotted off and Tristan let the beast take him wherever. He didn't know exactly where he was, but he trusted the horse to know where to go. The beast had an uncanny sense of direction – and smell. If Sam and Catriel had gotten out, with Halteclere to boot, then the horse would find the other. There was no doubt in Tristan's mind.

It was a quiet ride. With so much fog, he couldn't see far off into the distance. The eeriness of it all only served to turn his thoughts to dreadful conclusions. What if they hadn't gotten out? What if they lay dead in the barbarian village this very moment? Tristan would be to blame. Surely, even so weak, he could have gone in with Sam. He probably should have. If he had failed in this, in bringing Catriel home safely, in dragging Sam down with him, then what was he doing here? What more was there for him to do? He wished there was some sort of lever he could pull to make his thoughts as quiet as his surroundings.

After a while, something could be seen through the mist. His breath came a little bit easier as he spied what he feared so much to be gone – Sam, holding his sword out in defense, and Catriel standing behind, her hands on the reins of Halteclere.

_Thank the Maker_. He wasn't usually fond of thanking that mysterious deity who normally shunned Tristan and only brought him misery, but this time, he thought, he could make an exception.

Breaking fully through the mist, they realized that Tristan was neither barbarian nor ghoul and Sam sheathed his sword.

Tristan dismounted from Durendal, patting the horse in gratitude for his abilities. "You'll get a big carrot before this journey is done. And maybe, when it is, I'll get you a nice mare to retire with." The horse grunted his approval.

He made his way toward Sam, stopping to acknowledge the younger man with a pat on the cheek and a nod of appreciation for getting out that village unscathed. "Sam."

"Tristan." Sam nodded in return, adding a grin to the mix. There would be no emotional displays of reunion, of relief to find each other alive yet again. They were warriors, accustomed to such death defying scenarios. Tears and flowery speeches of love had no place in their time stricken lives. Simple greetings were enough.

Tristan made his way over to Catriel. She stood by Halteclere, caressing the horse's neck. The sight of her, well and good, looking so much like his brother, even a little like his mother, almost had him tossing aside his warrior's pride. She was all right. The relief he felt at that was so overwhelming, it pushed him nearly to tears. He hadn't realized before this moment how worried he'd been for her safety.

_This is what it must be like to be a father_. A ripple of sorrow passed through him. He would never know his son. Not in this life, at least. It wasn't just a thought, but a feeling of truth.

"Catriel," he called for her attention. "Are you all right?"

She stopped stroking the horse. "I'm fine."

"Good." He walked back to Sam.

"I'm glad…" Catriel spoke up hesitantly. He glanced back her way. "I'm glad you got away."

It was so unexpected that all he could do was nod in her direction.

"Gone, gone, and gone." Sam's voice broke through the quiet, misty air as he rummaged through their things.

"What is?" Tristan asked.

"Our rations."

Tristan took a look through their things – empty packs, all of them – and sighed. Without rations, they would have to seek out humanity.

"What are we going to do?" Sam asked.

"If we had the time, we could always hunt."

"We have nothing to hunt with, unless you want to catch a rabbit with a fucking barbarian sword." Sam gestured to the sword in his sheathe, one of Torgild's, taken from the dead Avvars because their own had been confiscated. "That's right, come hither sweet bunny, so I can caress you with my pretty, gem encrusted blade."

From the corner of his eye, Tristan saw Catriel eyeing Durendal with a funny expression. "We need food. Maybe there is time to hunt or forage. We have yet to see anything behind us since we turned onto the back trails, other than the barbarians."

"Your Magalie was probably lying. There is nobody behind us." Sam had missed Tristan's slip of the tongue – _anything_ – and continued to rant. "We could have stayed on the highway. We'd have been well on our way to the Brecilian Forest by now."

Behind them, with a glance over his shoulder, Tristan saw Catriel making her way slowly towards Durendal. What was the girl up to? Was she going to try and get away again? He turned back to Sam, though kept his guard up. "You know the highway is risky. And they are behind us. Commandant Duplessis promised he would come after me. You know he doesn't promise anything he can't keep to. If we're lucky, though, the Avvars will get to them before they get to us."

Sam grinned. "We did leave the barbarians in a terrible mood, didn't we?"

As Tristan chuckled, he shifted his attention back to Catriel. He noticed now, what she strode toward with purpose – something that had been wrapped and tucked away neatly, miraculously still there after the barbarian escapade – but now had come partially undone. The sword.

"Shit," he muttered. Too late he lunged toward his horse. Catriel had already grabbed the sword, tearing away the last bits of covering. She stared at the uncovered chevalier's sword with a twinkle in her eye, with a look so unlike her earlier calm. "Catriel…" he warned.

She struck toward him. He jumped to the side, out of the way, the chevalier's blade just missing him. Sam watched with amusement as Catriel continued to strike at Tristan. All Tristan could do was turn around in circles to evade the furious swings of the girl. He refused to take out his own sword, unwilling to strike out against his own niece.

It took much too long to disarm the girl. She was as quick as her mother and possessed a battle fury nearly equal to her father's. And though her skills were awkward and slightly unrefined, there was great potential in her. But finally, Tristan found an opening, grabbing hold of the girl's wrist, forcing her to drop the sword to the ground before she could do any real harm.

"What were you thinking?" Tristan reproached.

"How many more things are you hiding from me?" she huffed. "How many?"

"Calm yourself," Tristan said with stern warning. He wasn't going to converse with a half crazed girl who wouldn't listen to anything he had to say.

She didn't. If anything, she was even more furious. "How did you get that sword? Did you kill my mother for it?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Calm down."

"Let me go and we shall see if I calm down." Catriel attempted to wrench herself from his grip but Tristan held tight, not wishing for her to get anywhere near the sword before she had really calmed down. "Let go of me!"

There was a chance he might regret doing so, but he let her go. Catriel flung herself to the ground, toward the sword, but Sam got there first, pulling it away from her reach. Tristan crouched to Catriel's level.

"Your mother gave me this sword."

"It is mine," Catriel said with vehemence. "Fenarel gave it to me, a gift for me, after the raid, after my first kill."

Tristan flinched at the harshness. "She didn't want you to have it, not yet. She said you must master yourself before you master a weapon."

Catriel slumped forward, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. The mention of her mother's words had affected her. Tristan thought the girl might be crying, but when next she looked up, there remained only a look of determination on her face.

"But I must defend myself," she said, audibly and visibly calmer than before. "Can't you see that?"

"And what was that? Do you feel the need to defend yourself against me? I am not a danger to you. Sam and I are here to protect you."

"I must always prove myself, prove that I don't need protection. Why can't that be enough? Why can't you see that I can handle a weapon? That I _need_ to?"

"You nearly killed him," Sam pointed out with a barely restrained chuckle. Tristan sent the younger man an angry glare.

"But I didn't. I wasn't trying to." Catriel lowered her eyes. "Apologies. I only wished to prove to you…" A sigh of frustration escaped from between the girl's lips.

Tristan could see the girl's side of the argument. If the barbarians had taught them anything, it was that she did need to be able to defend herself. Many dangers lurked in Ferelden, most unpredictable. And if they were going to go back onto the highway, which it looked like they just might have to without any more rations, the danger would be doubled. He and Sam were wanted men. There's no telling what anyone would do to Catriel if they were found, if they were separated, if the chevaliers caught up to them. He'd promised her mother he'd keep her safe. If that meant giving her the sword before she was ready and breaking another promise, then so be it.

He extended a hand to the girl – an offer of aid, an offer of a truce. Catriel accepted it and he pulled her up. She dusted herself off.

"Sam, give her the sword."

Sam raised a surprised brow while Catriel's eyes lit up in anticipation.

"She's right. She needs to be able to defend herself."

Sam flipped the sword over and held it out hilt first to Catriel. Catriel studied it for a time, almost hesitant to take it, probably fearing a trick.

"This isn't a trick of Fen'Harel," Tristan encouraged. "Take the sword."

She took it. Sam backed away cautiously, feigning fear, holding his hands up in a mock surrender. Catriel smiled, sword in hand.

"Watch where you wave that thing from now on," Tristan cautioned.

"Yeah, next time Tristan won't be so nice." Sam winked. He came over to Tristan, placed a hand on his shoulder, and lowered his voice. "Though it took you long enough to disarm her, _old man_."

Tristan sighed and walked over to Durendal. "We should go."

"Tristan," Catriel called out. He turned his gaze her way, still staring in awe at her sword, surprised that she'd gotten her way. "_Ma serannas._"

He acknowledged her gratitude with a nod, before climbing onto his horse. _Thank you indeed_, he thought. _Let's hope you don't ever have to use that again before this journey is through. _


	23. Chapter TwentyTwo: Darkening Skies

Chapter Twenty-Two  
Darkening Skies

They travelled tirelessly for a few days, reaching an open meadow. The mountains were behind them now, their encounter with the barbarians nothing but a lingering memory. They hadn't been harried on the way out. They hadn't seen anything or anyone, really. It was strange to Tristan, but they were tired and they were hungry. So they stopped. All that mattered now was that they rest up. Food could come on the morrow.

The girl seemed restless and so when she brought her sword out and began to swing it around in a drill-like trance, Tristan did nothing to discourage her. Perhaps it would help her to forget about her hunger. As she danced around with the sword, the sun set in the distance behind them, being swallowed up by the mountain peaks. He noticed her stance was good, but she held her sword in an awkward manner.

"Catriel," he called out. Startled, she stopped her movements and turned to look at him. He held up his own sword, emphasizing the way he held it. She copied him, and tested out the ease the new hold gave her.

"Spar with me," she said.

Tristan put his sword down and leaned back once more. "Your mother would not appreciate that."

Catriel paused and let her sword fall to her side in rest. "She isn't here." Tristan thought he detected a hint of sorrow in those words, but there was no telling from her blank expression.

"I made a promise to her you wouldn't come to harm." And he intended to keep that promise, no matter what.

"You have a high opinion of yourself," Catriel narrowed her eyes in his direction. She reminded him so much at that moment of his brother. "What makes you think I won't harm you?"

He shared a look with Sam and chuckled. "Experience. Skill."

She frowned. "How did a mage come to be so _skilled_ anyway? I thought all mages were locked up in towers or prisons."

"Not him." Sam lightly punched him in the arm.

He glared at Sam. This was not something he cared to talk about. However, he knew by the curiousity in the girl's eyes that she would not let it go so easily.

"Why not?" she asked.

_Apostate! _he imagined her thinking. "I was recruited," he said.

"Into the army?"

Tristan sighed. "Into the Grey Wardens."

"Oh. So you learned how to wield a sword with them?"

"No. I learned in the Circle, from a Templar." It was such a long time ago he didn't even remember the name of the Templar. He'd just been plucked off the streets of Denerim. The Templar had pitied him, and in that pity taught him the basics of swordplay, before the Knight-Lieutenant had it stopped. "Though I guess you can say that I honed my skills with the Grey Wardens."

"Surprising." Catriel, thankfully, flipped her attention to Sam. "How about you Sam, will you spar with me?"

Sam started to stand up, but Tristan flung his arm out, sending the man back to the ground.

"Hey," Sam protested.

"There will be no sparring. It's getting dark and someone is bound to get hurt." They were not going to make a fire, like they had not every night since fleeing the barbarians. It was too risky.

"Stop looking at me. Just because I am the youngest and least _experienced_ does not mean that I am going to be the one getting hurt."

"And who says anyone is going to get hurt anyway?" Sam added.

"We need our rest." Tristan crossed his arms in resolute sternness. "Now put that sword down and get some sleep."

"You're no fun." Catriel pouted.

"Someone has to be serious. You both seem to have forgotten that we have a group of very angry men on our trail."

"Whom we haven't spotted once since we fled Jader," Sam pointed out.

"I don't want to argue about this again."

Catriel put her sword away carefully before settling herself onto the ground. Quiet descended upon them in the growing darkness. Tristan heard the rumble in his stomach, not really feeling it. He was tired, his lids drooping threateningly, but he would stay awake while the others slept. He'd gone days without food or sleep before; he could surely do it again.

"You said my parents both rescued you from death." It was Catriel, breaking through the silence.

"I did," Tristan replied.

"Are you going to keep that from me as well?"

He took a deep breath. "It's not a very pleasant topic and it's hardly bedtime material."

"I'm not a child."

"So you said many times before."

"Please…" He could just make out the pleading look on her face.

He sighed and turned away like he did not want to really talk about it, but to her surprise he did. "It was years ago, thirteen to be exact. A woman I deeply loved was murdered before my eyes. I chased the murderers into the night, but they'd hit me with a poison arrow. I collapsed in the snow. Your mother happened to find me the next morning. She brought me to your father's clan."

"My mother did that? All on her own?"

Tristan nodded.

"But… why would someone murder your wife?"

He felt the familiar guilt twist his heart. "They were after me. She was just… in the way." They didn't even have the chance to get married.

"Why did they want you?"

"For something I did a very long time ago."

"And you won't tell me?"

He closed his eyes, hoping Catriel would give up on her interrogation. He knew he owed her these answers and more, but it was not the time or the place. "It's another long story."

She looked to Sam. He shook his head.

"It's not my story to tell."

She looked at Tristan once more. "Then tell me how my father saved you."

Really, he couldn't bear drudging up all these old memories. Yet he had a feeling she would not give up so easily. So he played along, again, in the hopes that Catriel would soon tire of chatting. "It was after Brenna's death. He dragged me out of the darkness of my grief."

"That's it?" Catriel snorted.

"If you would have seen him at that time, you'd know that what your father did for him was a monumental task. Not even the king could get through to him."

"The king?" she asked, more alert than before.

_Curses on your mouth, Sam._ He frowned in the younger man's direction. "All Sam meant was that I was so fixated on revenge that it took over my life. I was walking around blindly, not taking care of myself. I was ready to take on the Antivan Crows all on my own. Suicidal and crazy."

"Did you ever get your revenge?"

He felt the old fury rise up, buried away for so long. "Not entirely."

"What does that mean?"

Tristan sighed. This had to stop. "It means it is time for sleep."

"There are many things you are not telling me. Like, why would my mother bring you to my father's clan? Why would my father help you? Why would the king want to help you? Why go after the Antivan Crows? And why are you not with the Grey Wardens anymore?"

It would take days to answer all she wanted to know. They didn't have the luxury of time for him to give her what she wanted. "In time, Catriel, you will get all the answers."

Catriel frowned. "Does all this have anything to do with your exile?"

"That's enough, Catriel." He clutched at his pounding head. The girl was relentless. Too curious for her own good. "Go to sleep."

She didn't do that though. She turned to the other man. "Sam?"

He shook his head. "I can't answer for Tristan."

"Why not?"

"Because he will tear me to pieces if I do." He said it with a smile, but he knew that Tristan would not appreciate answering the girl on his behalf. Though, Tristan would hardly tear the man to pieces. Maybe just send a fist to his face.

"That's not a good answer." Catriel sighed, looking like she was finally going to give up.

Sam shrugged. "It's all I have to give."

"Well, you can answer for yourself, right?"

"I suppose I could."

"Did you know my father?"

Sam leaned forward thoughtfully. "I met him once. And now that I think of it – he could be one of the Dalish heroes you so yearn for."

Catriel snorted.

"No really. Don't you see it?"

Catriel shook her head. "No, I don't."

"Go to sleep you two," Tristan said with finality. "We have a long ways to go yet."

Catriel grumbled, but acquiesced in the end to Tristan's wishes. He knew there was so much more she wanted to know, yet it would have to wait. She closed her eyes eventually, and finally, Tristan could rest, though he would not be sleeping while they were.

…

"I'm hungry." Catriel walked between Tristan and Sam, both leading their horses on foot. The meadow had provided some nourishment to the beasts, but nothing yet for them. Catriel crossed her arms over her stomach, as if to quell the hunger. She carried the sword at her back, a little over large for her but it didn't seem to matter to her.

Tristan felt queasy. Probably from hunger, maybe from something else. "So we all are," he replied to Catriel's remark.

"Can't we trap something?" she asked.

"There is a little village, familiar to me, not far ahead now."

"Tristan," Sam turned his head curiously toward Tristan. "You really want to chance it?"

No, he did not really want to chance it. But it was a little village, not a big town filled with Templars and guardsmen and prissy nobility. And they were in his debt. "What other choice do we have? I have a few friends in this village. Hopefully, they'll act from the goodness of their heart and not from the need to fill their purses."

"You put a lot of faith in that statement."

"Well, Sam, sometimes all you need is a little faith in something."

Sam paused and lifted his chin to the growing wind. "A storm is coming." He looked positively in ecstasy, despite all their troubles. He spread his arms wide, the wind rushing through what was left of his tattered mercenary cape, and then ran his hands through his wind whipped hair with a big grin.

A hill made a hump in the landscape in the short distance ahead. Above the hill, dark grey clouds the color of slate rolled in, shifting the wind, speeding it up so that it howled in their ears and whipped through their hair and clothes. The long, sweet smelling grass of the meadow rippled sideways and rustled in the wind. A bolt of lightning, born of nature's fury and not of a mage's, flashed atop the hill. One moment there was nothing there, in the next, a rumble of thunder marked the appearance of a lone rider.

"I fear another kind of storm is headed our way." Tristan stopped, held Catriel back. He could feel his pulse racing as he squinted to make out the figure. It couldn't be anything good.

"Who is it?" Catriel asked.

"It is Commandant Duplessis," Sam answered. His look of ecstasy was gone, replaced by an angry scowl.

The rider began a trot down the hill, towards them, closing the distance slowly. Tristan realized that Sam was right. It was the commandant. But how did he get in front of them? Where was everyone else? It seemed to him, that the barbarian detour had allowed the Crimson Knights to get ahead of them.

"The old bastard's alone." Sam pulled out his sword. "Let's finish this before it even starts."

"No," Tristan held a hand up in warning. Something was not right. The commandant couldn't be alone. He scanned the area around them. Nothing out of the ordinary could be seen. "Let's see what he has to say."

Sam lifted a confused brow. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Tristan did not pull out his sword, though his hand twitched to reach for it. "Catriel, get behind us. Stay close to the horse and be ready to flee."

The girl, thankfully, didn't argue at the tone of his voice. She did as he said, though the look she wore on her face, Tristan doubted she would flee if told to do that. _That stubborn defiance_. He turned back to the direction of the hill. The commandant was closer now. The grizzled old mercenary pulled up a few feet in front of them, his mouth curved into a half amused smile while his eyes showed nothing but cold, hard, fury. He flicked his gaze over Tristan before dismounting from his horse and striding forward carefully, his cape flapping in the wind and his boots thudding onto the ground in time for another crackle of thunder.

"The Hero of Ferelden. The _Hero_ of mother fucking _Ferelden_." The commandant spat on the ground in front of Tristan.

"You're the Hero?" Catriel's confused query rang out from behind.

Tristan's gut clenched. How could the man know that? How did he find out? _Magalie… no. She wouldn't… would she?_

When Tristan made no move to admit or deny his words, the commandant continued. "_Puis tu chies de l'or en barre? Allez-y, faire une merde__, _Hero, and we'll see that you're just a man like all of us."

"I _am_ just a man."

The commandant moved closer, staring Tristan down with his hawk eyed gaze. "Yes, but there is one thing that makes you more special than the rest – the bounty on your head." He turned his gaze onto Sam. "The bounty on his head."

"Go fuck yourself." Sam stepped forward in an instant, ready to strike at the commandant, but Tristan turned around and stopped him.

"Not yet," he warned in a whisper. Sam reluctantly backed down, though his anger still seethed.

A lightning bolt flashed through the sky, branching out, reaching out tentacles across the ominous sky, before quickly disappearing and darkening the skies once more.

"You know, you almost did Orlais a big favour. So many nobles wished to reclaim _the lost province_. You nearly provided the disorder they needed to invade this country of dogs." The commandant chuckled lightly. "If you'd succeeded, you might be known as the Hero of Orlais."

Tristan felt his patience running thin, his anger growing and ready to spill out. It wasn't so much the insulting words the commandant spoke, but the sliver of truth in them. He knew what his actions had cost him. What they could have cost Ferelden. _Hero of Orlais_. He could murder the commandant on the spot. But he held back. Only a fool attacked someone for speaking honest words and he had a feeling the commandant's intentions were to goad him anyway. The commandant was alone, or appeared to be, why? Where were the other Crimson Knights? Where were the chevaliers? "Enough of this. What do you want? An apology?"

"I want the bounty."

"No," Tristan retorted sharply. "I betrayed you. I stuck a knife in your back after nine years. I am sorry for that. I truly am. But you know it was the right thing to do."

For a moment, it looked like the commandant felt remorse. "You could have come to me."

"I didn't trust you. I didn't trust anyone."

The moment was gone. The commandant's features returned to their harshness. "Then it's a good thing you didn't. I would have thrown you into prison with all the other murderers and rapists." And then he looked beyond Tristan and Sam, to Catriel, acknowledging her for the first time. "And what's another dead knife ear to me?"

Tristan fumed. He balled his hands into fists, letting his nails dig into his palms, stopping himself from blasting this man to the other end of Ferelden. "You have no honour."

"For what I do, I have no need of honour." A booming thunder shook the air, even the ground beneath them. "You can make this easy and surrender."

"Never," Sam spat out.

"I would let the girl _slip away_."

"Don't trust him," Catriel said. "Fight!"

Tristan hadn't trusted the commandant before. Why should he trust him now? Yet if giving himself up meant Catriel's safety… but he couldn't let Sam give himself up.

Duplessis sensed his hesitation. "Be the Hero you claim to be. Sacrifice yourself for the poor girl. Give yourself up. It's what heroes are made of. What a suitable – _redeeming_ – ending for you, no?"

"Let Sam go, too. I would be the bigger catch anyway."

Sam shoved him in the shoulder, pulling him away from the commandant. "Are you fucking mad? I don't trust him."

"In all the years we've known him, he's always been good for his word."

"Until somebody crosses him. Which is what we've done. Why would he do anything of what you ask?"

Catriel moved in. "He just admitted he'd have let me die at the gallows. Why would he let me go free now? He doesn't want me anyway. It's Ser Thierry that wants me and he won't give up. Elgar'nan's fury, you will fight Tristan Amell! You will not surrender for me!"

The girl's enthusiastic words lifted his heart. But they also caught the attention of the commandant. "Fight, girl? You think I am the only one out here?" He turned to the hill behind them. As if on cue, another flash of lightning brightened the sky, revealing what had crept up to them while they conversed with the commandant – the rest of the Crimson Knights. Laughing, the commandant nodded to the back of them, the distance they had just covered. More riders – this time chevaliers. And then the heavens poured forth a torrent of rain.

_Ding. Ding. _The rain battered the helmets of the chevaliers. It splattered the ground. The deafening noise cut through the meadow like a scythe. For a moment nobody did anything but stand in the rain.

Tristan buried an instinctive sense of panic and lowered his gaze to Catriel. "Do you still want me to fight?"

She met his gaze with determination, drops of water dripping from her eyelashes onto her cheeks. "If you really are the Hero, you've faced far worse than a band of Orlesian thugs. And you're a mage, that has to count for something, doesn't it?"

"I'm only a man." Tristan sighed wearily. One of the chevaliers moved forward and Tristan stepped in front of Catriel, unsuccessfully shielding her from view. _It's too late, anyway._ Ser Thierry came to stand by the commandant's side. Arrogant, sneering, he smiled at them all. The strife between the mercenaries and the chevaliers must have been resolved, or else it never even existed in the first place. The commandant might have stayed true to his word, but the chevalier would never let Sam and Catriel go free.

"Hand over the girl, _apostate_," Ser Thierry commanded.

"Like fuck," Sam said, standing ready to fight with his sword held menacingly in front of him.

Tristan pulled out his own sword. The rain blew into his face, ran down his blade like a cascading waterfall. He held his free hand up in front of him, narrowing his gaze on Ser Thierry. "I've never been an apostate."

"The chantry would disagree." The chevalier made a smug motion with his head. Tristan followed the man's gaze. He almost lost his nerve at what he saw – a pair of Templars, and a Seeker, hidden underneath a cowl, the secretive order known to him only because he'd seen so many of their number in Val Royeaux. He felt drained of mana already. Drained of hope.

Archers raised their bows in the rain. There was nowhere to run, no way to fight back. The odds were greatly out of their favour. Tristan felt disheartened. A quick scan of all who surrounded them revealed to Tristan that Magalie was not there. A short burst of relief flooded him, yet it was gone in an instant. The end was surely near.

The commandant called for the archers to hold. "_Je veut qu'ils restent en vie. _I want them alive."

"You think that the king of Ferelden will pay out a bounty to a bunch of fucking _Orlesians_?" Sam laughed at his side, unflinching at the hopeless situation they were faced with.

"The Divine wants them alive." It came from the Seeker, a woman with an Orlesian lilt. The commandant nodded his agreement, but there seemed to be an undercurrent of disagreement there.

"The count wants their heads on spikes, all of them!" Ser Thierry shouted clearly through the rain.

The chantry, the Divine herself, wanted him alive, for whatever reason. The commandant wanted him for the bounty on his head, and the chevalier wanted his head. Perhaps, this would be an advantage. Perhaps, he could somehow play them against each other.

"What goes here?"

Nobody had noticed the little group of hunters come upon them. Two of them hauled a great stag between them, effortlessly it seemed. The grey haired man in the lead squinted at Tristan, right after sending a dirty look at the Orlesians. He walked with a cane. The man was strangely familiar to Tristan.

"Matthias?" Tristan grinned, dragging the name surprisingly quick out of his memory. "I'd not be a good friend if I didn't tell you to go away now and pretend you never saw anything."

Matthias moved slowly, hobbling along with his cane, closer to the two groups ready to explode into battle. He watched everyone closely, his eyes resting for a moment on Catriel, hooded and standing behind Sam and Tristan.

"And what sort of friend would I be if I did that?" Matthias asked. His little group of hunters followed closely on his heels, each of them looking suspiciously towards the Orlesians. The mercenaries and chevaliers were so surprised by the sudden intrusion, that they let the hunters walk right into the middle of it all, let them stop by Tristan's side.

"The sort that lives and breathes," Tristan replied as Matthias gave him a smack of greeting on the back.

Matthias chuckled. Tristan felt a sliver of hope attempting to crawl back into him. He wanted to bury it, seeing nothing good coming from Matthias' aid. Nothing but more death.

"Enough," Ser Thierry yelled, unsheathing his sword.

"Orlesians, eh?" Matthias fixed his gaze onto the chevalier. A look of disgust overcame him. "I thought it smelled funny."

"You wish to die as well, old man?" Ser Thierry asked with derision as he pulled out his sword. "Your cane will not save you."

"We are taking them alive," the commandant warned; ignored, though, by everyone.

"Orlesians in Ferelden?" Matthias scratched his chin, a mischievous grin on his lined face. "Not again, not ever. My father Wilhelm helped drive them out. I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, but I owe you, for my daughter's life. I will stand with you on this day – Hero."

"You don't need to do this." Tristan wished Matthias wouldn't, as much as the man's appearance had surprised him, even lifted his spirits a little, he did not want him involved. It was a battle already lost. And the presence of Templars – Matthias would do well to take note of.

"I don't," Matthias agreed. He pointed his cane at the Orlesians. "But as a proud and loyal Fereldan, I certainly won't let this filth run free in my backyard."

Ser Thierry lost any patience he held and struck out toward them with his sword held high, his chevaliers breaking from their spots and following suit. The commandant cursed in rage, motioning for his Crimson Knights to join the fray. Wilhelm and his fellow hunters lined up beside Tristan and Sam, bracing themselves for the coming onslaught. Then, when all was near, Matthias let loose a wave of spirit energy from his cane, sending the first few enemies writhing to the ground.

"Another mage on our side?" Sam glanced at Matthias in surprise. "This should be fun."

"Matthias, there are Templars here, be conservative with your magic. I can feel them draining me already."

Matthias turned to Tristan, a smirk on his face. "In all my life, the Templars have not caught up to me. I certainly won't let today be the day."

Tristan forced a smile through all his worry. He gripped Sam's shoulder hard. "Get Catriel and yourself out of here!"

But the girl withdrew her sword and slipped through their protective line. Tristan didn't have time to worry for her safety, though, for a swarm of mercenaries and chevaliers surrounded him, blocking his view of everything else.

…

_My promise to the gods will begin to be fulfilled on this day_. Catriel kissed the blade of her sword and ran through the now muddy road, swinging wildly at the oncoming chevaliers. She was afraid, there was no shame in admitting that, and she used that fear to fuel her fury.

She thought of her people, ambushed by these same men, the dead lying on the ground, and her fury grew tenfold. Her fear withered to a steady pulsating of the heart.

The first man she struck out against – Crimson Knight or chevalier of Jader, she couldn't tell and neither did she care – pushed away her blade. He stood dumbstruck at being attacked by a girl, his surprise taking him off his guard and she stabbed him in the side. Her sword did not go all the way through the man's armor. She found she was not yet strong enough to break through the armor, but it was enough to pour blood out of him.

He cried out in pain and she sprinted away to the next opponent, to the next sacrifice to the gods. She continued for some time in this way, stabbing and swinging at whatever came her way, missing sometimes, hitting home other times. Nobody seemed willing to strike back against her. That is, until she found herself in front of Ser Thierry.

Her courage fled in the face of the chevalier's mocking glare, yet she stood rooted to the ground, unable to flee herself. Time seemed to slow down so that only she and he stood on the battlefield. The cries, the din of battle faded away. The howling wind was the only thing she heard and the chevalier the only thing she saw. The rain continued to batter down onto her. She was soaking wet, only now feeling the weight of her clothes, the cold wetness seeping out of it. She shivered.

"Not so brave now, are we?" Thierry sneered.

Catriel gulped down a retort, tried to gather her courage in the lifting of her sword. She sucked in a deep breath and let it go… and she saw her breath before her, a white puff travelling toward the chevalier.

_What…?_ She furrowed her brows in confusion. She could no longer feel the pattering of the rain drops on her. She shifted her attention back to Thierry, who also seemed confused, his revenge forgotten for the moment.

The rain had transformed into big, puffy snowflakes.

"_Quelle sorcellerie est-ce__?_" Ser Thierry studied his blade in awe, the snowflakes rippling down onto it slowly.

_Indeed, what sorcery is this?_

A cold wind chilled Catriel to the bone. Her clothes began to freeze, cracking as she moved her arms. She watched as her blade was swallowed up by frost before her eyes. It glistened and sparkled like magic.

_Magic, of course._ She looked behind her, wondering if it really was magic, but the battle had stopped completely, with everyone looking around in confusion. She couldn't see Tristan or the mage named Matthias, but Sam came toward her, unharried by anyone on the other side of the battle, and followed by a young man from the group of hunters.

It was the middle of summer. Where did this snow come from?

The rain puddles turned to ice, creaking and groaning as men pressed their boots onto it. The snow began to accumulate on the ground. Catriel shivered again, feeling the cold air seeping into her. Her teeth chattered as her frozen clothes rubbed against her skin.

A screeching roar called out to them all.

"Oh fuck me." Sam watched the hump in the landscape behind them, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

Catriel turned around slowly, hardly able to breathe in the cold wind, and saw.

Shouts of "dragon" arose at once from the battlefield. Everyone turned their eyes onto the beast, forgetting the quarrels between each other. Some threw down their swords and ran, slipping onto the ice before dragging themselves back up and fleeing. Others tightened the grips on their weapons, standing fearlessly in the face of the beast.

Catriel stood frozen, literally, and figuratively. Her awe was overwhelming. The dragon was huge. Bigger than any creature she'd ever seen before. It was pale blue in color and fearsome horns jutted out of its head like icicles. It looked like it was a part of the Frostbacks, broken apart from the mountain in anger at the blood running the ground. It crouched on the hilltop, observing them all with eyes like a snake, claws digging into the ground, tail thumping and shaking the ground beneath. It opened its mouth, showing off teeth as sharp as daggers, and a hundred probably even a thousand times larger than daggers. It was like something out of the tales Lethra used to tell. Only this wasn't a tale. She shivered once more, though the cold had nothing to do with it this time around.

"The Hero has asked me to get you away from here." The young man that had followed Sam – a boy her age really – pulled her away. Catriel's awe – her fear – was too great to protest.

"It's not a dragon," she whispered with dread to no one in particular. "It's Hakkon Wintersbreath."


	24. Chapter TwentyThree: A Breath of Winter

Chapter Twenty-Three  
A Breath of Winter

One moment he was surrounded by a pack of snarling chevaliers eager to serve his head on a platter to their count, defending himself with hardly a chance to catch his breath, and the next moment, they scattered like wounded hounds, tails between their legs, whimpers of fear the only sound they made as they fled. But what did they flee? Why?

It was then that Tristan realized it was snowing. It was then that he felt the cold tighten around his bones. Memories flooded his mind of a dark time in the deep of winter… but it was not winter. How could it be snowing?

"Get Catriel away from here," he shouted to a frightened looking young man belonging to the group of hunters. The lad gulped away his fear, nodded, and fled in the wrong direction, before Sam steered them both toward the direction of Catriel.

That was one worry removed from his mind.

Everything stilled, like the calm before the storm. If he were to think of this moment years later, he imagined one thing that he would remember the most – the stag. Not the shouts and screams of men doing battle, wounding each other so that blood ran bright and steamy atop the accumulating snow. Neither the stench nor the unquenchable thirst that fighting brought about. No, of all the possible horrid things he had to choose from, it was the hunters' discarded catch that sent the most fear running through him.

As everyone stared at the sky, at the rain turned to snow, wondering what in the Maker's name was happening, Tristan watched the stag. He watched as the cold washed over it, a wave of frost overcoming the carcass slowly, like the taint travelling through veins. In seconds the carcass was stiff. In seconds it turned into a glistening blue thing of winter. It sent a shudder down his spine.

Yes, it was the stag that frightened him the most, that is, until he turned his head and saw the high dragon – the cause, he had no doubt in his mind, of the sudden winter.

No longer a shadow in a cloudless, sunny, blue sky. No longer a nagging worry in the back of his mind. Torgild was right. The barbarians were right. The skies were darkening. And Tristan had no fucking idea how to find the light.

He'd fought dragons before – high dragons, dragonlings, and drakes. He'd escaped their clutches and sometimes just barely. He'd even watched some of them destroy everything in their paths, unable to do anything but watch. The archdemon, an old god in dragon form, had proven that they could be beat. But always, it had been a united battle, a united effort. Now, he stood in the midst of people who wanted him dead. And now he had to worry about a dragon.

_Just my luck… _

He supposed he should be grateful that unlike the archdemon, this beast before them was just a regular high dragon. It wasn't an old god leading a horde of darkspawn. At least, he didn't think it was. Well, it wasn't leading any darkspawn army; he'd feel that if that were the case.

The dragon rested on the hill, perched like a cat on a branch, smug and arrogant, contemplating whether or not to attack the scurrying creatures below it. It roared. It pawed at the ground and flapped its wings. It was the strangest colored dragon Tristan had ever seen, except perhaps, for the high dragon in the Blackmarsh, which had breathed lightning and glowed in the night. This one, with blue and white coloring, had changed the rain to snow. He doubted it would be breathing fire. Not many men were sticking around to find out.

_Cowards,_ Tristan thought with revulsion as he took one step forward. "Cowards!" he shouted.

And then he stopped, mesmerized as the dragon reared, took in one sucking breath, its scaly chest puffing up to twice its normal size, and let it all out. It was a breath of winter, a cold deadly breath that reached the unlucky men closest to it, transforming them where they stood or ran into sparkling ice sculptures. There was a long stretched out moment where nothing happened, where everyone stood rooted to the ground in disbelief, in awe at the strange beautiful sight of it all; a glimmering winter wonderland in the midst of summer. And then the dragon pounced forward, his tail raking through the sculptures, shattering them into a million little pieces of ice.

More men fled.

Tristan had a brief thought in which he considered turning around himself, but he couldn't. He had to do something. This was his country and his countrymen in danger. If he didn't do anything, then who would? The hunters stuck around, knowing that if they didn't try to stop the dragon, to send it back on its merry way, then their own homes could very well be in the path of destruction. The chevaliers, the Crimson Knights, they had no such loyalty holding them there. Even so, some of them did stay, for glory, for adventure, or just out of plain stupidity.

Tristan took a deep breath, to steel himself for the fight, and searched the now sparsely populated battlefield for Matthias. His fellow mage walked bravely in the middle of it all, his cane held up, shielding the very men he earlier considered invaders against the cold breath of the dragon with a wall of fire. The mage would need his help. He wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. Tristan moved forward only to be stopped abruptly.

Heavy gauntlets encircled his arms. He felt the tip of a sword poking through the chinks of his chainmail at his back.

"You're coming with us."

Tristan glanced over his shoulders to see the Templars. His fury seethed. Of all times to arrest him, they chose now? He attempted to break free of their grip, pulling away, flexing his free hand in warning. The sword tip pierced through skin.

"Do you all want to die?" Tristan asked in fury. "Let me go. Let me help Matthias. We are the only thing standing between you and the cold breath of the dragon. Between you and death."

"Our orders are from the Divine."

"Do you think I care who your orders are from? If you don't let me go, the death of all these men will be on your conscience. On the Divine's."

The dragon roared again. It was all Matthias could do to stop the breath from reaching once more the battlefield. He cast a fireball into the air. It danced in the cold air, slowing down the progress of the dragon's breath, minimizing its effect. A few men attempted to get close to the dragon, one slipping on ice before the dragon swiped the man away with sharp talons. The dragon was like a child in a room full of toys – it knew it wanted to play, it just hadn't decided on what to play with yet.

"You've got to let me go," Tristan pleaded. The Templars' grips on his arms tightened. He could feel them working their own sort of warding magic on him. Any longer in their hands and he would not be able to help Matthias at all. He looked around for Sam, for Catriel. He could not find them. He could not help them, wherever they were. "Whatever I have done to earn the ire of the Divine, I will answer to, but after this battle. Without me, there is less of a chance that this dragon will let up. You know I am right."

The Seeker appeared before him. Her face was obscured in the shadows of her cowl. A bit of snow had piled up on her shoulders, starkly white against the black of her uniform. There was a bow and quiver at her back. She reached for Tristan, brushing her fingertips against his cheeks before pulling back, like she had been scalded on a hot iron.

"He is right," she said in her lilting Orlesian accent. "Let him go and fight. They need his help, let us not deprive them of it."

"But Sister," one of the Templars protested, hesitating to let go. "What if he is killed in battle?"

She lowered her head, further hiding from Tristan's gaze. There was something oddly familiar about her. He'd felt it at her touch. He sensed it in her voice, at the way she stood. "He will live," she said with certainty.

The Templars let him go. He righted himself, sent one last menacing look toward the Templars, moved forward, and then paused at the side of the Seeker, lowering his voice to a gruff whisper. "And why are you so certain that I will live?"

"Because I know you. You escape death like you are death itself."

He flinched at the words, yet he didn't have the time to reply. The dragon was tearing a path through the men remaining to fight it. Some went flying in the air, landing onto ground which would have been hard but for the light layer of snow that now covered it. Tristan raced to Matthias' side, placing a reassuring hand on the mage's shoulder.

"How much more fight do you have in you?" he asked.

Matthias grinned. "My hair may have gone grey since last you saw me, but I still have the stamina of a man half my age. I can defend my village for days if need be."

"Good, because this dragon doesn't look like it'll be leaving any time soon."

"I'll just keep blasting it with flame. See if you can get close and get it where it really hurts."

"The soft underbelly?" Tristan cocked a brow at the fellow mage.

"You're the one that killed the archdemon, how should I know?"

Tristan chuckled. "Then you just keep throwing fire at the beast. I'll see what I can do in the meantime."

The dragon flapped into the sky. If anyone thought it was leaving, then they had to think again. It only hovered above them, shooting cold breath once again at the men on the battlefield. The fire Matthias conjured protected the men from the worst of it, though many would have the beginnings of frostbite. Tristan cast a spell, setting every blade in the area to flame, the better to fight the ice dragon with.

With that done, he raced toward the hill, intending to draw the dragon back down to the ground, away from everyone else. He hoped to stab it, or perhaps engulf it in flames. He only hoped he wouldn't be turned into an ice sculpture before he could do anything to frighten the dragon away, or slightly on the impossible side, kill it. He hadn't noticed that someone had followed him up.

"Forget the bounty, those chantry slaves will never let me have you."

Tristan turned around, concealing his surprise. The commandant brandished his large two handed sword in Tristan's direction, his expression full of rage. He knew the man would not be one to run away from a fight, but Tristan feared the man was directing his fury at the wrong enemy.

"So what?" Tristan asked, his eyes leaving the dragon to hover in the background. "You're going to kill me?"

The commandant nodded, and smiled with his teeth bared. "I will."

Duplessis struck out in a wide arc. Tristan evaded the swinging sword completely by stepping backwards. "I don't want to fight you."

"You had no problem stabbing me in the back before." Duplessis came at him again. This time Tristan was forced to block with his own sword. Above the flames of his blade, he looked into the commandant's eyes. There was anger there, hatred even, and a little bit of hurt.

"It wasn't an easy decision, if that's what you think." Tristan pushed back, sending the commandant stumbling for a brief second.

"You went behind my back, arranged a rebellion with the Masked Rebels, and took my captive away." The commandant attacked again in a flurry this time. "I promoted you. I trusted you. And you sold out your brothers for a girl."

Tristan could do nothing but defend. He contemplated turning to magic for help, but he was conserving that. And truthfully, he did not want to hurt this man who had taken him in for nine years. He may have betrayed the man, but he owed him this last show of respect. He knew he could talk him down, convince him to turn his fury onto the dragon, where it was needed.

"Would you have been less angry if it had been for a bag of coins?" Tristan kicked the man backwards.

The commandant paused, heaving for breath. "That would have been expected."

"She is my niece."

The falling snow became heavy, mixed with rain. The dragon continued to swat at the men coming after it, resorting less to using its breath. Tristan could see Matthias in the distance, leaning wearily on his cane. In the meantime, Duplessis studied Tristan, with that worn out hawk-eyed gaze very familiar to him. He noticed the lines of age on the commandant's face, the way his hair had changed into a lighter shade of grey, the way he struggled to catch his breath. The commandant was older than he remembered.

"I'm sorry," Tristan said one more time. It would be the last time he apologized to the man.

The commandant straightened up. "Niece or not, the right thing to do or not, you did a very stupid thing. And I cannot let it go."

The commandant rushed forward with his sword held tightly, swinging once more. The man may have aged since last he saw him, but he still packed a deadly punch, was still a warrior not to reckon with at the best of times. Tristan felt a surge of stamina burst through him and he met the commandant's blade with his own. This time he would not hold back in a defensive position. This time, he would get the commandant to see that he was fighting the wrong enemy, even if it was the last thing he did.

They went back and forth. Strike and parry. Swing and dodge. Evade and land. The cold no longer wrapped itself around Tristan so tightly. He was warmed by the movements of the duel. He was warmed by the sight of the commandant growing tired.

A clang as sword met sword. A grunt as one opponent was pushed back. A feeling of exhilaration as the commandant fell to the ground.

Tristan crouched beside the grizzled old warrior, grabbed a handful of the man's hair, and forced him to look at the battle below the hill.

"Those are your men down there." He pointed with his sword. "Are you so consumed by revenge on me that you would leave your men to die?"

He watched as the dragon rampaged around the battlefield, snapping its jaw at flaming swords, shaking away flaming arrows – sent its way to Tristan's surprise by the Seeker. Yet, for all the fight, the corpses piled up in the snow. There were more men dead than alive now. Soon, if nothing was done, they would all be dead. Tristan shoved the commandant away and stood up. Duplessis turned around, a hard expression on his face.

"Get that mother fucker up here."

Tristan allowed himself a breath of relief before helping the commandant up.

"Stand back," he warned.

The mana he'd been conserving, the mana that was left to him after the Templars had begun to drain him, tingled throughout his body and burst forth through his sword in a bolt of lightning. Time seemed to slow as it flew through the air, toward the beast below. He held his breath, felt the soft leather of Brenna's pouch atop his pounding heart, and let out a short whoop as the bolt hit the dragon. It reared up in pain, roaring too, and shifted its attention with a snap of its magnificent head.

The dragon stared right at Tristan.

He was whooping no longer. He braced himself for the onslaught. "It's coming."

The dragon pushed off of the ground in one swift movement, launching itself into the air. A screech escaped its mouth as the flapping of its large wings brought about a blizzard. It came toward Tristan and the commandant as a shadow, barely visible as the snow whipped around them. And then it was completely lost to sight.

"Where is it?" Tristan yelled over the howling of the wind. He glanced at the commandant who searched the skies as calmly as if nothing were amiss.

"I will distract _la_ _chienne_." The commandant turned his attention back to Tristan, a look of what Tristan could only identify as resignation. "Make it count – make it worth it. You told me once honour can be regained…"

Tristan furrowed his brow in confusion, was about to open his mouth to question the commandant, when the old bear shoved him forward. The dragon's sharp talons were suddenly inches away from his face. And then they were gone. When he looked up, the commandant was gone too.

Tristan shot up from the ground, searching the skies. The dragon's shiny blue scales were no longer invisible. To Tristan's horror, he found the commandant – in the jaws of the dragon.

"You treacherous old bastard," Tristan muttered under his breath. "You took my words to heart."

His heart fell as the dragon landed a few feet away. It tossed the commandant into the air, like a cat playing with a mouse, before it breathed its cold deadly breath onto Duplessis, freezing him in mid air before shattering into a thousand little pieces on the ground.

Tristan closed his eyes. It had all happened so fast. Now, the least he could do was make it count, like the commandant had asked. Opening his eyes, he realized that he was close enough to the dragon now, unnoticed even. He ran toward it, not knowing entirely what he was doing, but knowing that he had to do it.

The underbelly came into view. Soft skin, no scales at all. He slid underneath the beast, going faster than he thought he would because of the formation of ice on the ground, and nearly missed the soft spot, before he raised his sword and stabbed. The dragon roared in agony, writhed around. Tristan held onto the sword, hoping against all odds not to be squished.

But it was worse. The dragon lifted itself off the ground. Tristan watched the distance grow, the ground becoming smaller and smaller – his sword was stuck. Still, he held onto the sword with both hands. He let go with his right hand, almost slipping off. A maelstrom of fire erupted from his free hand, scorching the beast from underneath. And though the beast screeched in pain, it continued to fly into the sky. The heat threatened Tristan, the flames reaching out toward him. There was no other choice to make. Tristan let go of his sword.

He fell to the ground, watching as the dragon flew out of the flames. The moment it took him to fall to the ground was the most peaceful he'd had in years. Serenity took over his being, wrapping him in a soft, warm blanket of hope.

And then his back hit the ground hard. The breath was knocked out of him. Pain flooded him and he believed himself to be dying.

Words came to his mind from where, he didn't know. _Was it worth it? All of it? _

His eyelids fluttered. He knew he didn't have long. And someone was above him, the Seeker. Her cowl had come undone. Her hair fell over her shoulders. It was red. Her eyes were blue – and watery, they were watery. _Why should she cry for me?_ And then faintly, he knew.

"Leliana?" he managed to croak out.

"Try not to look too surprised, it's embarrassing."

And then he lost consciousness.


	25. Chapter TwentyFour: Cat's Fury

**Warning:** **mature** **content** **ahead,** **some** **people** **may** **find some** **content** **disturbing.**  
_You've_ _been_ _warned. You're_ _welcome._  
-_artemiskat_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four  
Cat's Fury

It rained once more, this far away. The din of battle faded as they ran into a wooded area, far from the meadow with the hill, far from any view of the Frostback Mountains. The screams remained nothing but noise in the distance. The dragon – _Hakkon Wintersbreath_ – a memory. Had it all really happened?

His hand wrapped tightly around her wrist, unrelenting as he dragged her away from it all. She'd been too stricken with disbelief, fear even she was ashamed to admit now, that Catriel had let the boy pull her away. He pounded through the mud, his mind set on wherever they were going.

"Wait…" Catriel said. He kept running. It wasn't right, she kept thinking, that they were running away. They should have stayed with the others. They should be fighting the dragon. Maybe, they should even be dead, passing into the Beyond. "Wait," she called out again.

The boy was ignorant of her pleas. "We have to get away," he muttered numerous times under his heaving breath.

The rain was heavy, further drenching her, further sending her into shivers. It pelted into her face, along with the mud from the boy's feet. She felt her fury rising. "Where are you going?" she demanded loudly.

"To my village," the boy replied.

That wasn't right. They should turn back. They should rejoin the others. She couldn't let them die for her. "Stop!" she shouted. She dug her feet into the wet and muddy ground, like a ship anchoring amidst waves in the sea, and the boy had a difficult time of moving forward. He tried to keep going for a moment, dragging Catriel a little, until finally, he gave up. He turned to her in annoyance.

"The dragon," he began before he was cut off.

"Is that way!" Catriel pointed behind them. "You are taking us in the opposite direction."

The boy narrowed his eyes, a look of fury overcoming his muddy face. "I am doing what I was told, to take you away from said dragon."

"Well, I should probably tell you now that I hardly ever do what I am told." Catriel folded her arms over her chest and smirked at the stranger before her. "Do you always do what you are told? Are you such a coward?"

The boy thumped his chest with one fist, nostrils flaring in anger before his eyes alighted with mischief. "Is that a challenge, girl?"

Catriel stepped closer to the young man. "They need us, no matter what they say, _boy_."

He had only a hunting bow and a half-empty quiver, which he brushed his fingers against once before nodding his agreement. "You're right. I should never have left my father's side." He broke into a run, back towards the direction they had come from, back towards the cold, the slaughter of a dragon. And Catriel followed happily.

Though she was glad that she had succeeded in goading the boy to turn back, something did not feel right to Catriel. She had a curious feeling in the pit of her stomach, a feeling which travelled up her spine to raise the hair at the back of her neck. It was not the dragon which she feared, nor the possibility that she was running headlong to her death, but something else. She stopped and searched through the trees.

The boy sensed her hesitation and looked back. "Are you coming?"

"I'll be right behind you," she lied. The boy continued on his way. She pulled out her sword and listened, to the rain as it hit against her blade, to the wind as it tore through the wooded area she stood in, and to the clicking of the spurs on his boots as he emerged from behind the trees.

"Little bird," the chevalier laughed, "I finally have you all to myself."

She stifled a gasp. She willed herself to stillness, to standing straight and proud as the chevalier circled her, like a wolf on the prowl. She raised her sword, and turned slowly around with him, her eyes meeting his. "And I, too, finally have you all to myself, Thierry."

The chevalier tossed his head back and laughed.

It was all Catriel could do to not fling herself at the man in a wild fury of attack. But she would bide her time, calculating the precise moment to attack, when the chevalier was least expecting it. She didn't have much in her favour that would allow her to easily defeat this man. He was larger than her, stronger, and covered in heavy plate mail. She had to use what cunning she possessed to do any harm to the Orlesian.

Catriel looked him straight in the eye. "Did you know ser knight, that I made a promise to the gods?"

"A heathen is prone to do such things, when all hope is lost." Ser Thierry withdrew his sword with a cruel sneer. "Your mother did such a thing as I mounted her and took her like the bitch she was."

Something in Catriel threatened to break. She swallowed her fury, her hands unconsciously tightening onto the hilt of her sword. But she would not believe Ser Thierry. He didn't, couldn't possibly know who her mother was. He was lying. She remained steadfast, ignoring his barb.

"I promised the gods that I would kill one thousand _shems_ with this blade. You were supposed to be the first sacrifice until things changed. But lucky for you, the gods have destined us to meet once more, and now you will be the first sacrifice. I will see my blade run red with your blood."

Ser Thierry rumbled with laughter. "Your mother had such a feisty spirit too, until I broke it."

"You lie," Catriel said through gritted teeth.

"You lie to yourself, girl. It doesn't matter to me whether or not you believe me. I took immense pleasure in cutting her, in beating her into submission. Her brown hair turned a shade of red so that she resembled a whore in a brothel. Her grey eyes, once proud, held nothing but fear – before they were permanently shut that is."

"You bastard." Her thoughts raced in a swirl of emotion. He could easily guess her mother's hair color just by looking at Catriel – but the eyes; Catriel's own eyes were grayish blue. He could have said blue and Catriel would have laughed. He could have said blue, but he said grey, and instead of laughing she felt a tightness in her chest.

_He is lying. He is a liar. His words are false… _

His expression changed into something dark, something lascivious. "You will be more beautiful than your mother was."

She suppressed a shudder. The bastard would only talk of her mother in the past tense. What did it mean? Surely not that she was dead. He was only toying with her, goading her fury to come out and play.

_She is not dead…_

"I'll give Eirlys one thing – she never once told me your name."

That was it. Her fury could hold no longer. He'd pushed and pushed and now she was over the edge, a point of no return.

"Raaah!" She swung her sword wildly against the chevalier. The thought of her mother, bloodied, tortured at the hands of this man, like Guion had been, drove her forward in a blind fury. There was no thought for her own safety, only a consuming need to see this man dead. "Elgar'nan's fury be mine!"

Ser Thierry defended against her easily, all the while laughing, mocking her with his teeth stuck out in a cruel sneer. "Pray to your heathen gods, but only the Maker can save you now, and he won't for you are a savage who would piss on his name."

She drove forward, her sword swinging wildly, madly. She knew she should step back, take a breath, and assess the situation with a calm eye, but she couldn't stop herself. She couldn't stop the fury coursing within her no more than she could stop the blood of life pulsing through her veins. It took over her – maybe even Elgar'nan himself took over her, guiding her blade toward the chevalier, who danced around her, a taunting laugh at every stroke he parried from her.

As she fought herself into a languid torrent of attack, her fury waned, and panic began to take over. She felt it in her heart's unsteady pounding, in the grasping for a clear, unshuddering breath. Her mother had escaped Jader. She had not fallen into the hands of the Orlesians. She had not fallen into the hands of Ser Thierry. He had lied. He had said all those things to goad her into a stupid attack. A thing she had fallen for. She was just a stupid girl after all.

Ser Thierry calmly knocked away her sword, seeing his work beginning to take effect on Catriel. He shoved her backwards onto the ground. Catriel landed with a hard thump into the mud. The knight hovered over her with his sword. He pointed the tip of his sword at her cheeks, pressing lightly, caressing her even.

"So young," he said hoarsely. Catriel did not like the change in his voice, in the rough way he breathed. She did not like the look in his eyes. She pulled herself backwards with her hands. He simply followed, continuing to hold the sword at her face, tracing imaginary lines on her cheeks. "I would make you a woman. I would give you the blood tattoos your people mark themselves with – and more."

Catriel batted away the chevalier's sword before he could do anything of the sort. She twisted around, turning her back on the chevalier and attempted to crawl away into a run, all the while reaching out vainly for her sword. But he grabbed her wet tunic and pulled her roughly against him. She could feel his hot breath at the back of her neck as he encircled her waist with one arm and pressed the sharp edge of his blade against her throat with the other.

"You're a wild one," he gasped, his breath quickening. "But I will tame you, the same way I did your mother."

Her stomach turned as his hand, gauntleted and cold, moved upward and squeezed her small bud of a breast. She squirmed and he increased the pressure of the blade against her neck, and she stopped. She felt weak with panic, she wanted to retch. His vile hand moved lower, pulled her leggings down. She felt the rain and the wind on her bared skin.

"I hate you," she murmured.

There was a moment of pause, a moment where he pulled away from her. She could have escaped. She could have reached for her sword. But she did none of those things. Her mind was frozen, her limbs numb, and swiftly enough, the moment was gone.

"You will love this," he whispered breathlessly into her ear, his tongue dragging over its pointy tip. She shuddered in disgust and as if her mind had been awakened from its slumber, she tried one more time to get away. The time for escape had long passed, however. The sword's edge drew blood at the side of her neck in response to her sudden movement. "Your mother certainly enjoyed it."

And then he tore into her from behind and she screamed, wishing she had let the sword pierce her neck and kill her. The pain of his entrance created a well of tears in her eyes. Death certainly would have been preferable to this. He grunted at each thrust of his hard shaft. She closed her eyes, unable to do anything but endure. She felt herself ripping apart. She imagined the blood welling out as if cut from a sword. And that was what it felt like as he rammed into her.

He slackened his grip on his sword, letting it fall to the ground as he took his pleasure of Catriel. She thought of reaching for it, before he grabbed a hold of her hair, twisting it around his hand as he moaned, and pulled her head back. He thrust one last time and then shuddered atop her, a sigh escaping onto her neck as he pushed her into the mud. He left her body, leaned back away from her.

Catriel let the tears fall from her eyes, let them mingle with the water, the mud, and the blood beneath her. She pulled her leggings up, though the damage was already done, and brought herself into a sitting position, resting her chin on her knees. She let her hand linger by her boot while she focused on Ser Thierry's sword lying not far in front of her.

"Why?" she asked.

She heard him shuffling behind her, refastening his armour. "This is what you deserve. I told you before I would not let your humiliation of me go unpunished. This is only the beginning. You will come back to Orlais with me and the count has promised I could do whatever I wish with you."

Catriel continued to stare at the sword. "You are an evil man."

Ser Thierry noticed where her gaze rested. "Have I not tamed you enough, little bird?"

"I am no little bird," she replied, her voice lowered. She reached her hand into her boot and waited. Ser Thierry came close to her again. Her panic had dissolved for he'd already done the worst he could do to her. There was nothing but resolve beneath her breast now. Resolve that the chevalier would pay for what he did to her. She could not defeat him through strength, but there were other ways to bring down a snake. "I am Catriel, and I will kill you."

He grabbed her shoulder, hard. He laughed, the same mocking laugh he'd used before. "_Ca prenne plus qu'une fois pour apprivoisé une sauvage. Tu es comme ta mère_."

The fury returned to her then. In one swift movement, she removed her hand from her boot, bringing with it the obsidian dagger Etosa had given to her, and turning around, she plunged it into the neck of the chevalier. His eyes opened wide in surprise as his hand reached to his neck, blood squirting out, washing down his neck in the unrelenting rain.

Catriel stood up, pulled out the dagger, kicked the man in the chest, and he fell backwards in the mud. She wiped the dark blade on her tunic as Ser Thierry covered his neck in a panic, trying to stop the flow of blood as he writhed on the ground. With his other hand he reached in vain for his sword. Catriel limped over to it, picked it up, and flung it far into the woods. She spotted her own sword, the one Fenarel had given to her long ago now, and plucked it from the ground. The chevalier's eyes held nothing but fear now as she held it in his line of sight. _He recognizes it_, she thought with some satisfaction, _as the sword he lost_.

"May the Forgotten Ones feast on your soul for an eternity." Catriel swung at the chevalier's neck, the force of her swing not quite enough to slice completely through. The chevalier screamed, sputtered in suffering. She reveled in the sight, at being covered in his blood. And, because she knew her curse would not strike as much fear in him, she added another one. "May the Maker shun you from entering the Golden City and sitting by his glorious side."

She swung again. She hacked at the chevalier's neck, long after he was dead, long after she'd turned it into a bloody pulp of flesh and blood. She wanted it severed. She wanted it destroyed. It was a thick stump, like the thickest trees, but eventually she knew it would break free.

…

She didn't know how much time had passed. She didn't know how long she had been working on the ghastly deed. It had stopped raining at some point. The air had become calmer, the breeze lighter. A light touch on her shoulder alerted her to another presence. She turned around in a rage, frightened at the touch, disgusted by it.

"It's me," Sam backed away, his hands held up in defense. "I was searching for you everywhere. Farm boy said you were right behind him. What happened?"

Catriel let her bloody sword rest at her side. She inhaled deeply before letting out her breath in a shudder.

His eyes fell on the gruesome mess before them. "Is that…?"

"It was." Catriel nodded. She realized that she had succeeded in severing the chevalier's head from his body. She should have felt better because of that, but she didn't. She felt Sam's eyes linger on her. She turned away, ashamed. Not for what she had done, but for what she had let happen to her.

_No one shall ever know what he did to me…_

"Are you…" he reached for her; she twisted away, avoiding his gaze, his touch. "…all right?"

_You're too late_, she wanted to say. _You were supposed to protect me_. But she said nothing.

"Where are the others?" she asked instead, though she gave no window for him to answer. "Let's go." She moved away from the grisly scene she had created. She had let happen in her weakness.

With a relenting sigh, Sam pointed ahead. Catriel moved forward eagerly. She wanted to be away from this. Sam followed, though he seemed to sense her mood and lingered far from her side.

"Remind me never to enter into the line of Cat's fury."

It was meant to lighten the mood, but the jest only further darkened it. She couldn't believe the savagery she had committed. He deserved it after what he'd done to her, after what he said he did to her mother. Yet that was not all that was troubling her. In truth, she was afraid of what she had become in her fury. She was not sure she ever wanted to feel that way again – out of control, mindless to the point of recklessness. A small part of her, though, wished for it to be so.

A sleek, green dragonfly flew in front of her. It watched her, studied her. She swatted it away but it came back.

"Dragonflies are the eyes of the gods," she muttered under her breath.

"What?" Sam asked, looking curiously in her direction.

"That's what my mother used to tell me. They watch us when the gods are busy with more important things. And then, they report back." She felt like she was babbling, but she couldn't stand the silence, the ruckus of her thoughts. And, perhaps, the dragonfly was a sign, of what, she couldn't quite figure out.

The dragonfly landed on top of Sam's shoulders, its wings remaining outstretched.

"Clever gods," Sam said, "sending bugs no one notices to watch us. Well, better the bugs than the real dragons."

It flew away. Catriel said nothing more. She only wondered what the little spy would say to the gods of her deeds, of her weakness. She didn't know what had happened to the dragon, had not the strength to ask of it, and only figured that it must have been defeated, for Sam was in no panic. But suddenly, she wished the cold breath of the beast had reached her, frozen her, and shattered her to pieces before she'd even had the chance to meet the chevalier.

_Gods_, she thought, _it is far better to die than to live with the shame_.

For the first time in her life, Catriel felt drained of any hope. Even when she faced the gallows and thought all was lost, some part of her knew she would make it. But now, it didn't seem to matter anymore what happened to her. And she found that she didn't care in the least of what lay ahead.

In a forest where the mountains could not be seen, she lost a part of herself.


	26. Chapter TwentyFive: Old Friends, New Pr

Chapter Twenty-Five  
Old Friends, New Problems

Something contained itself in the shadows. Ever since he woke up it had been the only thing he was sure of. Because he felt it in his blood, the stirring, the heavy thickness of it, heard the constant hum in his brain. It was no longer so annoying, as it had been when he was younger. It was a soothing melody now.

Tristan sat in a room, alone, lit by a dozen candles. He wore no shirt, his tainted skin exposed to the night air, which fluttered in a light breeze through an open window. The curtains swayed languidly, caressed by the summer breeze.

He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. What had happened before he woke up. He wasn't even certain where he was. Movement outside the window caught his attention. He knew what it was even before the candlelight reflected onto it.

"What are you staring at creature?" Tristan called out from where he sat on a bed.

The mocking sneer of a monster greeted him. "We will be waiting for it. Come home it will soon."

Tristan flinched. Anger coursed through him, forcing him up, rushing him toward the open window. He bumped into a table, sent a chair crashing to the floor, before he reached an arm out toward the disciple spawn. He grabbed onto nothing but air. He poked his head out the window and caught the glint of the darkspawn's ghastly blade before it turned a corner.

"That's right, coward, run away. You know you can't win a fight against me." Tristan pulled himself back into the room, the darkspawn's laughter fading into the night. He felt it leaving. It would not harm anyone this night. It wouldn't dare with Tristan around.

A door creaked open, causing Tristan to turn his head in that direction. Still twitchy from the darkspawn encounter his hand hovered over where his sword should have been, but was not. A woman with hair of gold appeared behind the door, her hand lingering cautiously on the frame as her eyes met his. For a moment, Tristan thought it was Magalie, and then realized it wasn't. He slumped forward a little and the woman rushed forward to help him stand straight.

"You shouldn't be up just yet," she chided softly as she walked him back to the bed.

"I'm fine." It was a futile protest for the woman would only let go of him once he was at the bed's side. He sank down onto it. He really did feel fine, yet, for the life of him, he couldn't remember why he was there.

The woman went to the open window, leaned out against it, giving him a generous view of her backside all the while, and then straightened up. She closed the window's shutters and turned to Tristan. He smiled at her appreciatively.

"You were my knight in shining armour," she said.

He raised a confused brow in her direction. "Was I?"

She walked over to the overturned chair and righted it. "You don't remember me?"

He studied her thoughtfully. She was tall, shapely, with long blonde hair, braided at the front and pulled back, and honey brown eyes. Something familiar tugged at his consciousness, but he could not place it. "Such a beautiful woman that you are, any other time I'm sure I would remember you, but alas, I can't seem to remember what I did before I woke."

She smiled and looked to the heavens, unimpressed by his flattery. "You fell, from high up, and hard."

"Oh?" Tristan folded his arms, brought his legs up on the bed and leaned back. "It still doesn't ring a bell."

The woman shrugged. "Your memory will return, I don't doubt it."

"So, who are you?"

She dragged the chair closer to the bed and took a seat. "Amalia."

"Amalia," Tristan repeated. He still wasn't sure about ever having met her.

She sighed and tapped her fingers on the chair's arm rest. "I was not yet a woman when we met, just a little girl. That must be why you don't remember me."

Images flooded his mind, triggered by something she had said – a battlefield, an old friend, a dragon, him falling from the sky, and a Seeker of all the oddest things. He must be in Honnleath then. "Amalia, the daughter of Matthias. Of course. How could I forget? Where is the old mage?"

"He is resting. As should you."

"And the others, my companions?" He'd lost track of Sam and Catriel during the battle. He braced himself for the response.

"The hunters from our village that you encountered, they'd gone out to, well, hunt, for a summer tradition. Those not on the mend are there, in the barn, with the music, dancing, and of course, the drinking of my grandfather's famous ale."

"That includes Sam and Catriel?" Tristan had no doubt Sam would be there if he was able. Catriel, he was not so sure of. "They are all right?"

"As far as I know, yes."

That did nothing to reassure Tristan, but he let it go for the moment. Surely, she wouldn't lie to him about such a thing as the wellbeing of his companions?

"Nobody died?" Many had died, he remembered now with a slight grimace. The commandant, that gruff old dog, many chevaliers and Crimson Knights. He felt sad for his former brothers in arms, yet couldn't bring himself to mourn the chevaliers. He didn't know about the hunters from Honnleath. There were few of them, and when the dragon had landed, they had been lucky enough to be far away from its deadly breath.

"Some came close," she said, all the while, staring pointedly at Tristan, "but we were able to save them."

So he'd escaped the clutches of death once more. "You have my gratitude."

Amalia humbly looked away, toward her hand on the chair's arm rest. "I owed you."

Tristan followed her gaze to her hand. She was a mage, like her father and grandfather before her. "If I hadn't saved you from the demon cat, you would have let me die?"

She met his gaze and gave a short shake of her head. "No. I have a gift and I would use it to help anyone in need. But… there are some that would not be so kind."

"And why is that?" He knew the answer already, but he wanted to hear it from her.

She hesitated for a second, tapping her fingers on the chair once more, and then abruptly stopping. "We don't get much visitors here, but when we did, there were vile things said about you."

"Like what?" he prodded, even though he wasn't quite sure he wanted to know.

"That you… forced yourself onto the queen. That you… would have murdered her had not the king's bodyguard arrived in time."

The rumours were exactly what he thought they would be. Spread throughout Ferelden, even into Orlais, it was gossip ripe for the passing. He was surprised that it had not exploded into something more. He was surprised at the sliver of truth left in them after all these years.

_How awful to know the truth of the rumours. _

"Do you believe that?" he asked Amalia.

She shook her head. "I don't."

"And why not, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"A man who rescues my village, goes out of his way to do so, is incapable of such vile deeds."

Tristan sighed painfully. How could people place so much hope in him, in his heroicness, when he could not even find a shred of hope for himself? He was nothing what they thought. "And yet I am a man, subject to the basest desires, prey to committing the most heinous acts, just as any other man."

"But not those."

"Does that cat still have you charmed?" he chuckled, though his heart wasn't in it.

"No," she smiled, "I've long ago parted ways with felines. But I know what I know. No hero of mine would commit such treason."

"For the right reasons, anything is possible."

Amalia watched him carefully, seeming as if she refused to believe what he said. Like she only believed he was being humble. She stood up from the chair, it scraped the floor loudly. "Such dark thoughts. How did it come to this? Let us put these thoughts away and let me check your wound."

He waved her away when she reached toward him. "I am fine, really."

"The wound on your arm, we could do nothing for." She pointed at his tainted arm.

He instinctively tried to hide it. "That… that is something I can take care of."

"Are you sure?"

Tristan nodded, wiggled his fingers for emphasis. "I am a mage."

"Yes, one which was too weak to heal his broken ribs." Amalia placed her hands on her hips and raised a brow.

Tristan shrugged. "I am not infallible. Falling from the sky usually does that to a man."

She laughed. "It usually kills a man, but enough of this. Get some rest." She was about to turn around when out of nowhere, he felt the need to feel her hair. Curious, she stayed where she was, unmoving.

"The one you lost?" she asked.

His other hand went instinctively to the pouch around his neck, thankfully still there unlike his under tunic. He wondered how Amalia knew about Brenna. And then he wondered why he thought of someone else entirely. "Strangely enough, no."

"This pains you?"

"I don't know..."

"You can't stay true to ghosts while you are yet among the living." Amalia moved back, gently brushing his hand away from her hair. "I lost my husband a year ago. You must move on eventually. As must I."

"I'm sorry... I thought I had..." But he hadn't, had he? Brenna's ghost haunted him always. She was always there, in his thoughts. So much so, that he'd unfairly compared a living woman to a memory. He thought he was betraying Brenna for feeling something for Magalie, for feeling anything at all. Amalia was right, he had to move on. How did he do that, though, without betraying Brenna's memory? He sighed, thinking he had more important things to think of.

Footsteps sounded in the doorway, somebody cleared their throat. Tristan looked up, Amalia looked back, and they were greeted with a pouty frown. Amalia stood up and increased the distance between her and Tristan, clasping her hands at her back and nodding her head lightly in greeting to the woman – Leliana.

"I want to speak with him, as I thought I had made understood earlier." The Orlesian bard continued into the room, weaponless, dressed in her Seeker finery.

"Yes, please do." Amalia gestured toward Tristan. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty shade of pink and Tristan couldn't help sending a smile her way.

"Alone," Leliana stressed while crossing her arms over her chest.

One last quick glance at Tristan and Amalia scurried out of the room, a smile on her face, and closed the door behind her with a small thud.

"That was quite rude, Leliana, I thought you had better manners than that. We were in the middle of a conversation."

Leliana continued to frown as she moved toward the chair Amalia had vacated. Tristan grew uncomfortable under the woman's close scrutiny. All too late he realized that he was still shirtless. He shifted his arms so that the taint was less visible, but he did not miss the flicker of pity in Leliana's eyes as they raked over the rough blotches. The darkspawn's taunt rang through his mind – he would be _going home_ soon, whether he liked it or not. Leliana must have had the same thought, for she cast her eyes elsewhere, anywhere but on him. He didn't really blame her for that, but it hurt just the same.

"So I wasn't dreaming. You are here. You were there on the battlefield." Tristan brought her attention back to his face. "And you're a Seeker now. Or, were you always a secret agent of the Divine?"

She evaded his question, which really didn't send shockwaves through him at all. Instead, she glanced back at the door. "You've entangled yourself with many women over the years."

"Is that what you think?" He raised a brow. For the love of the Maker, was she jealous? "Amalia was returning a favour…"

"Oh come now. A kiss here, a kiss there." Leliana pressed her lips into a kiss. "Smile that charming smile and you had girls falling to their knees, ready to do you a _favour_."

Tristan smiled that charming smile. "You included."

"And Morrigan."

Tristan sighed. Did she find him just so she could drudge up the past and throw it in his face? Add to his already guilt-ridden heart? "That was then. I was just out of the Circle. What did you expect me to do? I wasn't pledging myself to anything but the end of the Blight. If a fair maiden wanted to show her appreciation, then who was I to refuse? But that is not me anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. There haven't been many women, Leliana."

"Did you ever really love me?"

His eyes rolled. "Must we rehash the past?"

"It would be a great help in my understanding or perhaps I should say, misunderstanding, of you."

"The great enigma that is Tristan Amell. I admit, even I cannot solve it sometimes."

She was immune to his jests. She continued to stare at him, as if she really did want to solve the enigma of who he really was. She must have known he was exiled. She must have known what for. Why did she seek him out? Why was she there? She focused in on the pouch around his neck. It would kill him to say this, to see the hurt once again on her face, once again because of him. But it needed to be said if he was ever going to find out her reasons for being there, because he knew, for certain, that she wasn't there simply to catch up or resolve past grievances.

"There is only one woman that I ever truly loved, that I felt I knew finally what it meant when the bards sang of a love so great it could never be sundered. But that woman is gone, long gone." He clutched the pouch and Leliana's eyes filled with understanding. It hadn't been her. "I loved you, in a different sort of way."

"She is the reason you did what you did. Why you are exiled. Why there is a bounty on your head." It was not a question, but a statement of fact.

"How do you know this?" Tristan asked, curiousity growing within him.

"I have been searching for you for years, always turning up nothing. You are a hard one to find. And then, I heard tales of a mercenary. They sounded strangely like you, but when I got to Jader, you were already gone, had already rescued the girl. I knew it was you. The war…" she stopped mid-sentence for Tristan had burst into uncontrolled mirth and laughter.

"I don't want to hear of the war. My head is about to explode just from seeing you again after all these years. Tell me, Leliana, just how long has it been?"

"Fifteen years, perhaps."

"That long?" He gave her a sideways look. She looked good, after all these years. He couldn't say the same for himself, with the taint spreading over him like the plague, and the tired bags under his eyes. "And you don't look a year older."

Leliana sighed. "The fact of the matter is the Divine wishes to speak to you."

"Must be important."

"It is."

He shook his head once. "I can't. Sorry."

"The matter is not up for debate."

"Says who? Her holiness?"

"You'd do well to speak respectfully."

"Or what? You'll cut me like a dog?" He stared challengingly at the bard. She might be a servant of the Divine, but she was much more than that. Leliana could be as deadly as she was devoted. Tristan shrugged after the woman made no move to reply to his barb. "She can't hear me."

"Have your years as a mercenary turned you against the Maker?"

"No." It came out gruff and angry, smoldering with resentment for that faraway deity who made his life miserable at every bend in the road. "I've always been this way."

"That is a lie. It's all too easy to lose faith, and harder to keep it."

"What do you want?" He closed his eyes briefly, unwilling to hear one of her sermons on faith. It would be wasted words, and wasted breath. He was more interested in what she was doing there, why she was searching for him on behalf of the great and holy Divine.

Leliana remained quiet and thoughtful. After a moment in which she studied him in the candlelight, she accepted his change in conversation. "I want you to come back with me. The Divine is expecting this. She wishes to speak with you."

"Of what? What could I possibly mean to the Divine?"

"It is a matter of great importance."

"And a secret, too, I take it. How do I know you're not here to arrest me, to bring me to a mage prison? _The Aeonar?_ The chantry certainly has had it in for mages for a couple of years now."

"I would never do that."

"Oh no? You'd have every reason to."

"You are very dear to me. You have been in my thoughts for years." She reached for his hand and held it. Her hands were soft, like they always had been. She smelt good, too, wore the same Orlesian perfume she used to. It brought a wave of nostalgia to his head, a wave he wished to smother.

"I made a promise to a woman – not like that. Maker, when did I become such a man whore in your eyes?"

She smiled, so small it was barely there, but it was a smile just the same. "You mistake my look for what it is not. So you made a promise, of what?"

"I promised I would see her daughter home safely. It is a promise I intend to keep, Leliana. Know this now, I will not go with you."

She pulled away suddenly. "I am not asking."

"So you are going to drag me to the Divine, is that it?"

"If I must. When the Divine asks something of you, you do it."

"I am not a slave of the chantry."

Leliana fought back her anger. He could see it rising in the way her eyes flinched at his remark. "She would offer you immunity. No one would come near you, not the Crows, not anyone from Ferelden."

Tristan laughed. It rumbled from deep within him. "I've gotten along just fine without her immunity."

"By living a lie."

It was her turn to sting, his turn to bury the rising anger. "I am not going. And you are not taking me."

"It is very important Tristan." She reached for him again, but this time he pulled away.

"So you said."

She sank back in her chair and huffed out a breath. "Then make your case. Tell me why I should hold off, why I should let your trail go cold."

"You would do that?"

"Tell me why I should."

He was tongue tied for a moment, unsure of what to say. He could have said a million different things. He could have made a long flowery speech sprinkled with illusions of fairy dust. But he chose to say the truth. The simple truth. "Because the girl I rescued is my niece and I promised to get her home."

Leliana did not say anything. She stood up from the chair, paced around the room with her head in her hand and only stopped after a long moment. She didn't know he had family. Perhaps, she even thought him a liar. Tristan held his breath, hoping against all hope that she would simply let his trail go cold like she had proposed.

"Samuel Longshot can escort her the rest of the way. You will come with me."

It was too much to ask for, of course. Leliana turned a cold shoulder, and left the room.

"The Divine can kiss my sorry ass," Tristan muttered under his breath. "I will never go back to Orlais."

He had a promise to keep, and one which he would see through, unless the Maker himself came down from his Golden City to smite him.


	27. Chapter TwentySix: After the Storm

Chapter Twenty-Six  
After the Storm

The dancers thumped around the barn, in rhythm to the sole instrument playing a tune. The fiddler strummed a fast song. Feet pounded swiftly. Skirts were raised from ankles. The wooden planks covering the barn floor trembled with the motion atop it. Dust from every crevice possible burst into the air adding to the hazy feeling of it all.

Torches were lit around the barn, hanging off the wall. One wrong step, one bad fall, and one of those torches could mean the end of the celebration. The end of the barn.

But that didn't stop the revelers. It was the middle of summer. Every year the people of Honnleath celebrated this day. No one quite remembered why. It was just tradition, and they stuck to tradition like a barnacle clings to a ship. And though the day had started out badly, with a couple of their hunters returning wounded from the hunt, the celebration went on, with the blessing and insistence of those wounded.

The one room barn was becoming stuffy. The heat from the torches mingled with the heat from the bodies, from the night air. Usually, the townsfolk would light a bonfire, but this night, because of the dragon, they stayed in the barn. The dust drifted into Catriel's hood, stinging her eyes. She wiped away what she could.

She stood alone, watching the revelers, staying far away from the dancing, lest someone drag her into it. She was not in the mood for dancing. She was not in the mood for anything at all.

Sam was a different story. To Catriel, he looked more alive and happy than he ever had before. He mingled around the dance floor, swaying to the music, one hand clutching a mug of ale which he clinked against anyone else who clutched the same, all the while whooping in joy.

"To Ferelden!" he shouted each time he took a sip of the ale and getting everyone else to join in with him. He linked his free arm into a woman's, grinning slyly. "And to all the beautiful Ferelden lasses!"

The woman giggled and blushed under Sam's attention, until her husband broke them apart with a scowl. Sam only patted the man on the chest, said something incomprehensible to Catriel so far away, and he moved away, dancing with his mug of ale and a smile on his face.

_I don't belong here._

"Not one dead Fereldan," Sam said loudly to an eager youth not far from Catriel. "Can't say the same for the Orlesian bastards! They should stick to their fancy balls and leave the dragon killing to us."

"The dragon lives," the youth pointed out.

Sam gripped the youth's shoulder hard. "It won't come back here, not if it wants to stay alive." His words were coming out slightly slurred. He let go of the youth and returned to the dancing. His mug of ale spilled out at every thump on the floor he made, until finally, it was empty. He attempted a gulp, looked surprised that it was empty, shrugged his shoulders, and then tossed the mug to the side. And he continued to dance, only this time he made his way toward Catriel.

Catriel sucked in her breath, turned her gaze to her shoes and tried to sink into the wall. She hoped he would get the hint. But he continued toward her, his arm stretched out, inviting, beckoning.

_Go away. I don't belong here._

"Cat," he called out cheerfully. "Come dance. Come celebrate."

"Celebrate what?" she muttered sharply.

He reached for her hand and before she could pull away it was engulfed within his own sweaty palms. He pulled her from her dark corner. She resisted.

"We're free," he declared with a smile.

She wrenched her hand out of his. "I don't want to dance."

Catriel didn't wait for his reaction. She pushed her way through a crowd of bodies, trying to find her way out of the stuffy, hazy barn. She felt her heart racing beneath her chest. Her breath grew short, she felt smothered. She needed a way out. She couldn't find it. She feared she would never find it, and then just as she shoved one last person out of her path, she saw the door. She ran through it, taking great gasps of outside air. Catriel ran alongside the barn, stopping at the corner, and sinking into the side of the structure. She held her head in her hands.

"I will never be free…" she whispered. Her hands trembled. She sat atop them to stop the rising panic. "How can I be free?"

There was a hollow, empty space inside of her. It used to be filled with love, joy, and optimism. Bad things had occupied it, too. Bad things such as guilt, regret, and shame. Now it was simply empty. That was scary. It was as if… _that man_… had erased her as a person. It didn't matter that she had killed him, for he'd already killed her.

After a few long moments, Catriel felt in control of herself again. She forced the memories to the back of her mind. The trembling of her hands stopped, her heart no longer raced, and her breathing steadied. She continued to sit by the barn, feeling the walls vibrate with the celebration inside. She didn't want to be there. She wondered if Tristan had awakened yet. Perhaps she could pay him a visit.

Catriel flinched at the sound of the barn door closing shut. Someone appeared from the barn. Squinting through the darkness, she realized it was Sam. She held her breath, hoping he would walk right past her. And he did. He did not even see her sitting in the shadows. She was relieved. She hadn't wanted to talk with him.

_Maybe I should apologize to him for running out so rudely. _

She slowly dragged herself up from the ground. Quietly, she trailed Sam, all the while wondering what he was up to. He never looked back, never suspected he was being followed. He stopped by a small dwelling, close to the center of town. Catriel hid behind a tree. He knocked on the door. Someone let him in.

Catriel crept closer to the little house. A half open window emitted some light into the dark night. Like a moth attracted to light, Catriel stepped carefully to the open window. She wasn't quite tall enough to see through, but standing on tip toes she managed to pull herself up enough to see through. The window frame creaked and she held her breath, held still, but nothing happened. So she peeked in.

Sam stood there, watching a woman in front of him, her back to Catriel. But she recognized the woman as the one he'd attempted to dance with before her husband got in the way. Sam eyed the woman with a half smirk, his gaze wandering down her body slowly. Catriel wondered what the woman was doing. And then she knew. The woman swayed from side to side as she drew her dress down. The last thing Catriel saw before abruptly letting go of the window was Sam striding eagerly toward the woman.

She landed with a thud on the ground, covering her eyes with her fists, wishing she had never followed Sam. The woman giggled and Catriel moved her fists to her ears. She sprung up from the ground and ran. She didn't know where she was going, only knew that she had to block it from her mind. Seeing Sam in that way only threatened for her memory of the day to flood her mind again.

_I will not let him win. I will not let him… win._

She ran into a fence in the middle of town, the force of the collision flipping her over onto her back and onto the ground. The breath was knocked out of her. As she struggled to breathe, she brought her hands up in front of her, seeing how dirty they were. She felt filthy. She felt dirty. There were blood stains on her hands, on her clothes, splattered also with mud.

Catriel sat up. She knew what she had to do. She gathered hold of her wits, finding her bearings. The house where Tristan rested was close to a windmill. There were many windmills in this little village, but only one in the center of town. She hauled herself off the ground and made her way toward the house of Matthias.

The mage's daughter sat outside wrapped in a shawl, and rocking in a chair. At the sudden appearance of Catriel, the woman stopped rocking, alarm visible in her eyes. Once she realized it was only Catriel, she relaxed.

"Have you come to see Tristan?" she asked kindly.

That wasn't Catriel's intention, but if he had awakened… "Is he awake?"

Amalia nodded her head. "Yes, but I'm afraid the Seeker is taking up his time at the moment."

"And the Templars?"

Amalia's face turned. She was clearly unhappy with the unwelcome guests. "They are inside as well."

Catriel also didn't like the Templars. She got a bad feeling from the trio. Sam may have thought they were free, but he foolishly gave no thought to the presence of the chantry's shepherds. Not that she really cared what happened anyway. She was already dead.

_You are not. Do not let him win._

"You are welcome inside, if you wish. Though I doubt the Seeker will let you speak with Tristan this night. She is quite bossy that one."

Catriel shook her head. "I must cleanse."

"I could fill a tub for you if you'd like. But it would be best to wait until tomorrow."

That wouldn't do. "Is there a stream nearby? A river?"

Amalia hesitated for a moment before answering. "There is a river to the south of the village. But you should not go alone in the night…"

Catriel didn't hear the rest of what Amalia had to say. She was already heading south.

…

The dark storm clouds that had decorated the skies earlier in the day had rolled away to the edge of the world leaving the night sky a black pool of stars. Calm had returned to the air. There existed only a light breeze, softly rustling the leaves on either side of the small path which led to the river. The air felt fresher, and smelt of renewal after a rain. Catriel felt none of this, only heard the gentle lapping of water against shore and the promise of cleansing it held.

As she travelled the beaten path, pebbles crunching under feet, she heard the crack of a twig. She twisted around, alert, basic instincts taking over, one hand clutching at the hilt of her dagger, the other hovering at her twitching back which held her filthy sword. She searched the darkness, seeing nothing. When she turned back toward the water, she waited before setting off and was rewarded with another following sound.

_Amalia?_

She thought it might be the woman behind her, looking out for her safety, so when she faced around again, she did not withdraw her dagger. Not right away at least, for what she saw had her in a defensive position, her dagger held in front of her threateningly, in a flash.

"What are you?" she asked the… creature… standing before her. It was shaped like a man, wearing armour like a man would, though not any kind she'd ever seen. It was ghastly, with sharp protrusions from the shoulder guards. But that was nothing compared to the face. Was it a leper? Was it a cursed man? The skin of the creature was rough and a dark purplish blue color. The eyes were beady and malevolent things and when the creature sneered, showing sharp knife-like teeth, she would have turned tail and fled if she were not so entranced by its ugliness.

The creature walked one step forward, completely oblivious to the dagger pointing at its chest. It studied her, tilting its head from side to side as if to better understand Catriel. It sniffed the air, though its nose was barely existent. And then… and then it spoke. "It has the blood of the Grey Warden."

Catriel backed away slowly, still holding the dagger out in front of her, though the voice of the creature set her heart racing and her hands to shaking. She had not been expecting it to speak. She half thought it had been something she dreamed up. But it was there. It was really there before her. She did not know if she should lunge at it and run or converse with it. In the end, her curiousity chose for her.

"What has the blood of the Grey Warden?" she asked.

The creature stepped forward, Catriel held it at bay with her dagger.

"The Father told me harm not anyone, especially the blood of the Grey Warden."

"You make no sense," Catriel pointed out angrily. Perhaps it was foolish to react in such a way to this creature, which held a broad sword at its back. But maybe, just maybe Catriel didn't care if the creature ran her through. "No!" she shouted in response to her bleak thought.

The creature dipped back into the shadows, still watching her, but not making any move to harm her.

"You did not answer me," Catriel said, moving toward the creature this time. "What are you? What are you speaking of?"

"Darkspawn." The creature laughed, or at least that was what it sounded like to Catriel, and he showed her his back and walked a few more feet away before looking over his shoulder. "The girl. The Grey Warden. Same blood. One tainted. One not."

And the creature disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Catriel stood still for a long moment, letting her dagger fall to her side. She stared at the spot the darkspawn, for that is what it seemed to have been, had stood. For all the horrid stories she heard of them, she wondered why he did not take her. Why he did not kill her. His words were confusing. She took a deep breath, wondering if the darkspawn really was gone, deciding in the end, that he was and she turned back to the direction of the water.

_The spawn did not take me because I am sullied. Because I am dirty. Because I wear still the skin of a child. I am a woman now, not the way I would have chosen, but it is so. _

Her frustration, her anger, her rage, her sorrow of the day came bumbling out in a long howling roar as she reached the shore of the river. She dropped her leather pack onto the ground. She ripped the sword Fenarel had long ago given her from her back. She dropped Etosa's dagger to the ground. She tore her soiled clothes off of her, not caring if the spawn was still around. When a pile of clothes surrounded her feet and her bare skin on display to the night, she waded into the river.

The water was cold. But she was dirty. As the first shock of cold passed through her, she grabbed a rock, gleaming in the starlight. Pressing it deep into her palms, feeling the sharp edges tear into her skin, she sucked in a mouthful of air and plunged underneath the water.

She opened her eyes. She ignored the sting as the water hit them. She looked up to see the stars of the sky, shimmering, fractured, from underneath. She sunk as far as she could, all the while gazing upwards. The pressure of the water surrounded her. The cold seeped into her. Her lungs burned. Slowly, but surely, she felt again. She was alive. Nobody could take that away from her. She reached the bottom, pushed up like a frog, and swam to the surface. She broke through, taking in a mouthful of air.

"I do not surrender," she whispered to the night.

Catriel took the rock in her hand and scraped away at the skin on her arm. She scrubbed away the mud and gore that had not been washed away in the rain. The effort of this set her blood boiling into a rage.

"I am alive. He is dead."

She felt again. It had only been hours, but she knew she could not languish in numbness. She knew she had to take charge of her life or else she would forever change and not for the better. But as she scrubbed the filth away from every inch of her body, she felt the shame returning. It was a futile effort then, for she could never go back to before.

Catriel waded out of the water, dropped to the sand and as she looked to the stars, she could feel again, yes, but not what she wanted to feel. She felt him violating her. She felt the throbbing pain between her legs. She sat up and crawled toward her discarded things. She reached for Etosa's dagger and studied its blackness in the starlight. Mesmerized by its sharp edge she pressed the blade to her forearm. A trickle of blood appeared on her skin. Sweet relief washed over her senses for a lost moment before she tossed the dagger to the ground and wiped the blood off her arm.

"What am I doing?"

She turned her attention to her pack, suddenly feeling the chill air on her skin, feeling every droplet of water dripping from her hair onto her back, sending goose bumps all across her. Digging through her pack she searched for her comb, instead finding the blue dress she had taken from the caravan such a long time ago now. She took it out and held it up to the light. The gold threading glistened in the starlight. She picked up the dagger again and nicked the tip of it at the thread, unraveling it from the dress. She would keep it. It might prove useful someday. When she was done removing it from the dress, she shoved it into her pack. Next, she ran the blade of the dagger through the dress, cutting it short and tearing off the sleeves to make a new tunic. She discarded the scrap material and pulled what was left over her head. She found her second pair of leggings and pulled that on, too. And then she searched for her comb again. When she felt it in her hand, she removed it from her pack only something else came out with it.

A piece of parchment fell slowly to the ground like a leaf in the wind. Catriel watched it fall. She watched it sitting on the ground while her heart began to race. It was a foreboding thing to her. She had not put it in her pack. She disliked writing. She disliked reading. She did not really want to touch it but it called to her. She placed her comb in her lap and reached out for the parchment. She turned it over and the handwriting on it stopped her heart.

It was her mother's letters.

Catriel sucked in her breath, held the parchment to the little light the stars provided and read.

_My dearest daughter, I hope this letter finds you well. As I write, I am not at all sure if you will find this, for I know how you detest reading and writing and you just might throw away a piece of parchment without thought to looking at it. At least I know that if you are reading this, then you have been rescued. You must be angry with me. You must think I am punishing you. But know this daughter, the mercenary I have asked to take you home is a good man. He will do whatever it takes to get you home. I can see you frowning when I mention home. Home is in the mountains, you must be protesting. I have never said much about your father. I am sorry for that. I know you think him dead, but that is not at all the truth. I guess I thought not saying anything at all would be best. Why I thought that, I don't know. Let your anger for this run to me, not at your father. You will see, he is a good man as well. Blood is thicker than water. He will prove this, when he takes you in. I don't have much time to write this. There is much more I would like to say. We parted on bad terms. Let that not taint our memories of each other until we meet again. Ma'arlath. I love you always. Your mother. _

She reread it another time, the words floating through her mind but not sticking. She read it a third time, and then crumpled it up. With a frustrated sigh, she shoved it back into her pack. Her eyes had watered, but she wiped them away. Calmly, she combed her hair. _So many lies_, she thought. She didn't know what to believe anymore.

She was so confused.


	28. Chapter TwentySeven: The Shattering

There are some small spoilers in here from _Asunder_, just a head's up in case you have not read that book yet.  
-artemiskat

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven  
The Shattering

The room was starting to get to him. Daylight filtered in through the only window. Yet for all the cheery brightness the new day promised, his mood was foul. He paced around the small space with a slight limp. Sharp pain reached up into his back at every step he took – a result of the fall he was only beginning to feel now, a day later. The thing that riled up Tristan the most though was not the pain, but Leliana's threat.

Sleep had not come after his conversation with Leliana. No matter what the woman thought, no matter what she said must happen, Tristan had other ideas. He was not going to become a prisoner of the chantry. He was not going to go back to Orlais. He would take Catriel home and no stunningly gorgeous bard would stop him. And definitely not the Templars.

_No, not the Templars. Not ever. _He balled his fists in an attempt to stop the rage from billowing out from his palms. It would only incite the Templars into smiting him. He couldn't let that happen. He might need his magic and it wouldn't do to waste his mana here or let it be drained by the Templars.

A commotion outside the door drew his angry glare to that direction. It creaked open slowly, the hinges squeaking painfully loud and crying out for oil. But the voices that came through the door were louder. Matthias appeared in the threshold, smacking a protesting Templar with his cane, giving Tristan a brief glimpse of Leliana before the mage closed the door firmly shut behind him.

"Templars." Matthias shook his head and looked to the ceiling of the room. "You think the Maker would have brighter servants."

Tristan grinned, happy to see Matthias so well, happy to see anyone other than those who kept him under guard in this room. "Didn't they break with the chantry?"

Matthias placed his cane under the door knob and turned to Tristan. "Who knows anymore? Frankly, I don't give a damn. The chantry, the circle of magi, those troubles are a long way from here." Matthias moved forward, surprisingly agile for one who used a cane, though Tristan suspected the cane to be for show only anyway, and clasped arms with Tristan. "Glad to see you still alive, Hero."

Tristan winced at being called that. "You were the real hero yesterday."

"I wasn't going to let that dragon come anywhere near my town or my family."

"Thank you Matthias. Yesterday could have turned out much different if you hadn't showed up when you did." Once again, Tristan realized he'd evaded death by a slim margin. Just how many more times could he cheat it? All that mattered now, however, was getting Catriel home.

"I wasn't going to let Orlesians run free in Ferelden again."

"Even so, you have my gratitude." He nodded sincerely, though Tristan had the sudden feeling that Matthias might not have helped him if he didn't owe him his daughter's life.

The mage strode over to the only chair in the room, pulled it along the floor, and seated himself in it, all the while watching Tristan carefully. When he was comfortable, he raised a questioning brow in Tristan's direction. "That was a lot of men after such a small group."

"It was," Tristan agreed.

"I asked no questions before, but…"

"I understand. It's the least I can do for you." Tristan began to pace again. His foul mood threatened to return. He could feel another blasted headache coming on. He clutched at his forehead, though it did nothing to stop the oncoming pounding.

Matthias watched him expectantly. "So, who were they?"

Tristan took a deep breath before beginning his explanation. "You know I was exiled. You may not know that I've been in Orlais for the past nine years, hiding in plain sight so to speak, though I went by another name. To make a long story short, things went relatively well until recently. I'd been making a living as a mercenary, had been ordered to flush out Dalish rebels from outside of Jader, and when they put a girl on the execution block… I couldn't do it anymore."

"The girl that is with you?"

Tristan nodded. "Sam and I got her out of there in time, with the help of the Dalish. The count of Jader was not happy about this and sent his chevaliers after me, wanting the girl back. And suffice it to say my commandant was not happy about my betrayal. He came after me too. As for the Seeker – I didn't even know about her until they all caught up to us outside of Honnleath."

Matthias had a thoughtful expression on his face. Tristan offered no further explanation. It was all he had to give anyway.

"So it's true, you are part elf."

Caught off guard by the deductions Matthias had made from the little he told him, Tristan almost couldn't find any reply. "You've heard?"

"I heard a lot of things about you. For one supposed to be exiled and forgotten, you are not."

Tristan sighed. He wished that he had been forgotten in Ferelden. But it had been too much to ask for, as usual. It would have made his life a lot easier.

"Why risk bringing the girl to Ferelden?" Matthias asked.

_You mean why risk myself coming to Ferelden?_ But he didn't say that. Matthias didn't deserve to bear the brunt of his ire at this moment. "There is truth and there are lies to what is said about me. This much is true. I am part elf. She is my niece. I am bringing her home."

Matthias accepted the answer. "That is good then."

Tristan stopped by the window to gaze out. The people of Honnleath seemed not to be up and about just yet, after the reveling of the night before. "Amalia seems to think I'm incapable of doing anything… _un-heroic_."

Matthias chuckled. "She would think that. My butterfly has always been impressionable – a trait she inherited from her mother – and you left a big impression on her all those years ago."

Tristan turned to the mage. "And you? You believe everything they say of me?"

There was a thump at the door, as if a Templar had knocked the pommel of his sword against it, either by accident or on purpose. Matthias shifted his attention there. The voices of the Templars were loud. They spoke in Orlesian. Tristan didn't care what they said, he only wanted to hear Matthias' answer. But he wouldn't even get that.

"Do you know what happened to the golem after the Blight ended?" Matthias arose from the chair as he questioned Tristan.

"Shale?" Tristan lifted a shoulder. "I've lost track of most of my companions from that time."

"I suppose you would have, being in Orlais and all that." Matthias' expression was hard and accusing.

Tristan narrowed his eyes at Matthias. "What's it to you?"

Matthias glanced at the door. "You've not lost track of all."

Tristan followed the mage's gaze. "Leliana." It was no wonder Matthias' gaze was accusing. Tristan had unwittingly brought the Templars to the mage's home. It could mean trouble for Matthias should the Templars choose that path. He moved back to the window, away from Matthias. "Unfortunately, this one felt the need to catch up to me."

"Young love never lasts," Matthias said.

Tristan had no answer to that. He closed his eyes and for a moment he could see Leliana from years ago, fighting by his side to end the Blight. Had it been real? Had she been playing him all along? It had been sweet, but nothing more. He'd had a much stronger love for Brenna. Morrigan had been fond of saying love soured, passion withered and died. Would that have been the case with Brenna, had she lived? He would never know now, would he?

"What are you going to do about her?" Matthias asked, breaking through his pained thoughts.

Tristan twisted around to meet the mage. "I don't know yet."

Matthias crossed his arms over his chest. "I made sure to keep track of that… _thing_ you call Shale. I always thought it would come back to take revenge on me for what my father did to it."

"Shale was in the habit of crushing things into dust, yet somehow I doubt she would have come back for you. She was free. Why waste freedom on revenge?" _How ironic. I should have come to that realization long ago…_

"I couldn't take the chance. Anyway, I've lost track of it now. Last I knew, it was traipsing alongside Wynne."

"Wynne? You have news of her as well?" Tristan had last seen Wynne in Amaranthine. He knew she was active in the Circle of Magi. He wondered what happened to her, and then his heart sank at the grave expression on Matthias' face.

"During the troubles in the circle, Wynne passed away aiding her son, Rhys. Last I heard, the golem was with the mages."

Tristan shouldn't be surprised; Wynne had been living on borrowed time, only staying alive through the spirit that inhabited her body. Still, it pressed melancholy into his heart to know that the indomitable Wynne had fallen sometime ago and he was only hearing of it now. She hadn't spoken much of her son, but at least she had known him for a time. At least Shale had been with her. It all made him think of someone else. "Do you know anything of Morrigan?" _And my son?_

Matthias shook his head. "I only knew of Wynne because of the golem."

Tristan ran a hand through his hair. What was he doing, asking for the past to come back? He had the here and the now to worry about. "My current companions – I haven't seen them. I haven't heard from them. Amalia told me they are well, but I'd like to see with my own eyes."

Matthias moved to the door and retrieved his cane. "I'll have Amalia fetch them."

"Am I not allowed out of this house?" Tristan glared at the door, wishing for a fleeting moment that he could burn through it with his eyes and scare the Templars away, knowing in the end that Leliana would never frighten at such a thing.

"I hate to say it, but I'm in agreement with the Templars on this one."

Surprised, Tristan raised a brow to Matthias. "Oh?"

"Not all villagers are willing to shelter hunted men, Hero or not. There's a mighty fine price on your head and I have no doubt that for some, greed would overtake gratitude."

"I understand." He'd be leaving as soon as possible anyway. If only he could speak to Sam and Catriel. Matthias grabbed hold of the door knob. "You haven't answered my question," Tristan called out to him, pausing the mage in his action.

"I have one for you." Matthias glanced over his shoulder. "Would I help someone as horrible as you?"

Tristan frowned. "I am horrible."

"Then so am I." Matthias winked, opened the door, and slipped through the threshold.

Tristan slumped onto the bed. The thought of Wynne brought to mind Siofra. If he managed to get out of this room and this mess with Leliana, he would see his mother again. He suddenly dreaded that. What would she think of him? Would she be as blind to the truth as Amalia? As Magalie seemed to be? Did he really care?

_Not all of it is true,_ he reminded himself.

…

She'd fallen asleep beside the river. Catriel found herself being nudged awake by Amalia. For a moment, through her bleary eyes she thought it was her mother. But when she shook herself to clarity, it was only the woman who'd warned her not to go near the river by herself.

"You're a pretty girl. You should not have come out here alone," Amalia reproached.

Catriel dragged herself into a sitting position. She flashed the dagger at her belt. Amalia caught the gesture with a frown.

"You think that will save you?" Amalia placed a hand on her hip while at the same time seemed to be studying Catriel and her new tunic. "You're still small for now."

"I'm already lost," Catriel muttered as she stood up, dragging her pack with her.

"What's that?" Amalia questioned.

"Nothing." Catriel bent to pick up her sword, which she'd scrubbed clean in the starlight. It would need a sharpening too, but that could come later.

Amalia eyed the sword warily. "You've got a sword too. What kind of girl are you?"

"I like blades," Catriel explained while fixing the sword to her back.

"Well, who am I to judge you. When I was younger than you are now, I liked cats. And that got me into a lot of trouble."

Catriel brushed herself free of sand. When she was done, she looked up at the kind looking woman. "My mouth starts the trouble. My curiousity fuels it. And my sword gets me out of it." _Most of the time_, Catriel left out.

"Then I should hope it's a good thing that you know how to use them." Amalia prodded Catriel forward with a hand to her back. "Tristan wants to see you."

"Fine," Catriel shrugged the woman off and headed back to town, leaving Amalia to hitch up her skirts and run to keep up.

…

It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the lesser light of the house, but when it did, Catriel spotted the Seeker seated at a table, deep in conversation with one of the Templars. She lingered by the doorway to listen to what they said. Amalia had stayed outside, not wanting to be near the Templars.

"_Nous ne pouvons pas attendre plus longtemps,_" the Templar said.

"_Et on ne vas pas attendre pour plus longtemps. Quand les chevaux seraient prêts, quand on peut trouver les chevaux perdu, on va partir. __Du calme, Pierre_." The seeker placed a hand over the Templar's.

"_Je ne l'aime pas cette pays, pas d'offense a vous. J'ai très envie de dire adieu à ce gens_."

They didn't know that she could understand them, and they couldn't know, but they stopped talking anyway once she moved forward. The Seeker kept her eyes on Catriel. There was curiousity in them and even perhaps a bit of kindness, yet Catriel ignored the woman and pushed toward the door that Tristan was behind. The other Templar stood before it with his hand across the frame, barring her way.

Catriel thought of saying something, probably nasty in nature, but thankfully, before any words could come out of her mouth the Seeker arose from her chair and walked over to them. Looking at Catriel all the while, she told the Templar to let her through in Orlesian. The Templar reluctantly lowered his arm and moved aside.

"You may go in," the Seeker nodded.

_As if I need your permission…_ Catriel held her tongue and opened the door. She went through quickly, slamming the door in the Seeker's face. She didn't know why she was so angry with the woman. She didn't know her, but their presence did not give her a good feeling. And neither did the fact that they held Tristan under guard in this room.

"Catriel." He sat on a tiny bed, straightening up at her appearance. "You look… different. Grown up almost."

His puzzlement at the change in her was a little worrisome, until she realized he only saw the outside of her. The dirt of the road had been washed away, she wore fresher clothes, and her hair was combed back neatly. Not so long ago she might have been happy to hear that she looked "grown up" but now it only added to the pain on the inside. She stood by the doorway, unsure of what to do with herself.

"You look different, too," she said. Another cloak had been shed from his back. He sat before her as his truest self – the Hero of Ferelden. She'd been shocked to find out and then had all but forgotten with everything that happened. Now, she remembered. "Like a fallen hero."

She'd meant to spite him, but to her surprise he laughed. "It is refreshing to hear someone speak the truth about me."

"I'm tired of your lies."

"So am I."

"Sam told me the Hero of Ferelden's mother was _elvhen_." Catriel moved closer to Tristan, holding his gaze and not letting it go. "Is this true?"

"Yes," he replied unflinchingly.

Catriel crossed her arms in frustration. "You could have told me."

Tristan sighed. "I'm just a big stupid oaf, aren't I? I should have done many things. But I never think things through. You probably don't want to hear this again, but I am sorry."

"You are a big stupid oaf." Catriel sat at the edge of the bed. "But I am stupid too. I don't care to argue about your lies anymore. I just want this over and done with. I want to go home."

"You are not stupid. I will take you home, like I promised your mother." He must have thought she meant the Brecilian Forest when she said home, but that was far from her mind. Something must have shown on her face for he scooted closer to her. "Are you all right, Catriel?"

The pressure behind her eyes was too much. She couldn't hold it much longer. It burned. "Do you think she is dead?"

"Your mother?"

Catriel nodded. "My mother." She pressed her fingers into the edge of the bed, as if that would stop the burning behind her eyes, her heart from racing.

"Why would you think that?" Tristan asked. There was such unabashed concern in his face that she had to look away or else risk cracking open like an egg.

"Ser…" she couldn't say his name, but Tristan seemed to know who she referred to, even if the tale hadn't already spread to him all alone in this room.

"I will ask the Seeker for any news. Leliana is an old friend. She passed through Jader lately. She might know something."

"If Magalie had no news of my people, why would Leliana?"

"Magalie rode ahead of everyone to catch up with us first. If any of your people were caught or killed – she didn't know. Leliana might."

"They're your people, too." Catriel gazed up at him through her lashes. There had been something familiar about his tattoos. She should have known.

It was his turn to look away. "Do you want me to ask?"

"And if she doesn't have any news?"

"What does your heart tell you?"

_He was lying. But so am I. My heart aches for her. He knew too much for it all to be a lie._ She didn't say any of that to Tristan though. Instead, she lied. "She must be alive."

"Then she is alive." He said it with such certainty that it brought a lump to Catriel's throat.

"Forget I asked. Don't ask the Seeker." She didn't want to know the truth. It was easier to pretend that her mother was alive and well, that she would see her again one day.

"Are you sure?" Tristan asked.

It was easier to pretend, but how long did she want to do that? The burning behind her eyes grew. She could ignore it no longer. The tears came out just as a sob was wrenched from her throat. She covered her face, ashamed to have broken down in front of this man who was a hero, a stranger, and yet none of those. They were silent tears after that one sob but her shoulders shook and they wouldn't stop pouring out.

"I won't ask her." His arm came around her then. She cringed once before giving in and letting him pull her close. She cried on his shoulder. A part of her wondered why she let this liar comfort her, and the other part of her didn't care.

The door creaked open and closed before her eyes were dried out. When she drew back from Tristan, she found that no one had actually entered the room. She stood up and walked over to the window. She was embarrassed. She couldn't look Tristan in the eye.

"What happened, Catriel? You disappeared from the battle field."

"You'll hear the tale soon enough." She hugged herself, feeling a shiver run down her spine. Amalia had told her on the way back from the river that things were being said about her, no doubt started by Sam's big mouth, for he'd been the only one to see what she had done.

"Tales are never the whole truth. Believe me, I know. I'd rather hear it from you."

"The truth is…" She turned around, straightening up, standing tall and meeting Tristan's gaze. "The truth is, this woman you think is your friend is leaving as soon as they can secure horses for travel. She has you under guard. Is she taking you with her?"

Tristan recoiled at the sudden change in topic, but for the moment he seemed to accept it. "That is what she thinks."

"Can I help?"

Tristan studied her wearily for a long moment. His look was thoughtful, calculating. "There is something you can do for me."

"Name it then." Catriel needed a distraction. She wanted out of this town. And though she had always wanted away from Tristan and Sam, she knew now that she would let them lead her to what they said was her home. After that, she would be free.

"Stealth around the town council. Listen to what they plan. Leliana and the Templars are not our only problem in leaving this town. I want to know what is going on. The sooner we can leave, the better."

Catriel gave a short nod. "I can do that." She moved toward the door to get started. Tristan was right. The sooner they could leave, the better for all.

"Catriel," Tristan called out. She paused to give him her attention. "Have you seen Sam?"

"Amalia couldn't find him," Catriel answered. But she knew where he was, though he might have been chased out of that house by the woman's husband by now. Of all the stupid things in the world, she blushed at the thought of Sam and the woman together. She hid her face from Tristan's view.

"Ah," Tristan let out an annoyed breath. "Sam does love to carouse. He will come out with the owls… or when his stomach rumbles loudly in hunger. Whichever comes first."


	29. Chapter TwentyEight: Revelations in the

Chapter Twenty-Eight  
Revelations in the Light of Day

Time dragged by slowly in the moments Tristan found himself alone in the room. Pacing around in thought only drove his back pain to the forefront of his mind so that he could not even think of how to get out of the room without anyone getting hurt. So he sat on the bed, until the straw poking out of it and the stillness of it all made him restless and he had to stand up again. And pace once more he did.

He worried about Catriel, so fragile and changed, somehow. The tears she had shed tugged at his heart, left it twisted in dread for he believed himself responsible for it. He'd done nothing but lie to her since he met her. He still was; the truth of their blood tie left hanging on his tongue, ready to slip out before she broke down. And he failed to look after her during the battle. It was pure luck she made it out alive. He worried about Sam, too, thinking the elusive younger man might have gotten into trouble. And he worried about Leliana. If she would not let him go free, then… no, he could not let her get hurt. The Templars he wouldn't mind blasting to the other end of the continent, but not Leliana. Not his old friend, his old lover.

His back pulled. He sat on the wooden chair, grimacing like an old man in pain. Amalia's healing magic had done all it could, he doubted he could do any better. There was a limit, sometimes, to how much magic could heal. Sometimes, it had to be left in the Maker's hands.

Tristan laughed, thinking how crazy he sounded to himself in his boredom. Imagine, him, leaving things in the Maker's hands. Life was what he had made it, for better or for worse. There was no such thing as destiny. Only crazy old hags like Flemeth spoke of such silly things. But then again, Flemeth had proven to be more than what she let on.

He gripped the leather pouch around his neck, willing his thoughts to turn to something useful, like how to get out of this current mess. The house was quiet, but he had no doubt that one of the Templars stood before the door, guarding him. Tristan rarely ever did so, but the quiet and the boredom had him pulling the pouch from around his neck. He held it in his hands, feeling the beads of the old necklace through the worn leather. He ran his fingers along the string, an image of Brenna flooding his mind. Only the image warped into someone else entirely.

_Magalie…_

He flinched in surprise and the pouch fell to the floor, underneath the small wooden table.

"I really am going crazy." He pushed himself out of the chair and bent to retrieve the pouch, all the while his back pulling in pain. _But maybe_, he thought, _it is time to let go_. In truth, it had been past time to let go, but the guilt of Brenna's death had always hung over his head like a storm cloud that wouldn't burst apart. He retrieved the pouch, thinking how Catriel might like to have the necklace, it being Dalish in design, and as he scooted backwards, he hit his head on the table.

Tristan glared angrily at the bottom of the table, sorely tempted to burn the old thing in revenge. As if he weren't in enough pain already. But something caught his eye. A series of pictures had been carved in the wood. They were only plain stick figures, but whoever had carved the pictures had made sure to put a lot of detail in the clothes of the stick figures. A hulking giant of a man stood on the far right of the group of stick figures. The man wore heavy plate mail and carried a large two handed sword. Next to him was a woman in circle robes, holding a staff high in the air. Standing next to her, daggers in hand, with clearly marked elf ears, was a man in leathers.

As Tristan's eyes roved around the carvings, he realized that he was seeing his old companions. The hulking giant proved to be not a man but Sten, the mage Wynne, the elf Zevran, and beside them with her bow was Leliana, and next to her a mabari hound – Loki. Standing far to the right of them all, as if the carver had been to camp and known how much of a loner she was, was Morrigan. Below three other figures was a crudely drawn griffin – the symbol of the Grey Wardens. Tristan recognized himself, Alistair, and Melisende. A golem – Shale – was depicted to their side, pigeons perched on its shoulders. The only one that was missing was Oghren, which made sense because they'd travelled to Honnleath before they'd gone to Orzammar and recruited the dwarf. He crawled further underneath the table, intrigued and amused by the pictures. At the other end, he found a stick figure of a little girl, a cat, and what he assumed to be him, for the words "Hero of Ferelden" were written in big, childish letters underneath.

_Amalia must have done this._

He ran his fingers across the carvings, remembering that far ago time in his life. Sometimes he couldn't believe that he gathered an army, stopped a civil war, and killed an archdemon. But he hadn't done it alone. All those stick figures there underneath the table proved that. Yet somehow, he alone had gotten stuck with the Hero tag. Now, though, he felt another weight upon his shoulders. One which he had to lift all on his own.

"What are you doing under the table?"

Jerked from his thoughts, Tristan hit his head again and cursed. He crawled out from underneath the table, placed the leather pouch around his neck once more, tucked it underneath his tunic and stood up, painfully as his spine cracked. He turned to the window, where the voice had come from, and rubbed his noggin.

"I'm bored, Sam."

Sam grinned from the outside, looking slightly disheveled from the celebration Tristan had no doubt Sam had joined in the night before. As Tristan neared the window, he saw the younger man held a mug of ale.

"I thought you might have passed out from too much drink. You never could hold your ale," Sam said, holding up the mug of ale for emphasis.

Tristan reached the window and was briefly tempted to swat the mug out of Sam's hand, but he needed him. "Do you think I was celebrating in here? Did it not yet dawn on you that I am being held prisoner in this little room? Where have you been all this time anyway?"

Sam's grin disappeared. "I tried to come in and see you like you wanted, but they wouldn't let me. So pretty Amalia told me about this window here. It's good to see you still breathing, Tristan. The way they carried you to the village in a litter, I thought for sure you were a goner this time."

Tristan narrowed his eyes in Sam's direction. "And yet you had no trouble joining in the celebration while I lay unconscious and near death."

Sam looked affronted. "It's not like I could do anything to help you. I would only have gotten in the way."

Tristan sighed. The man had a point. It was only his foul mood lashing out at anything it could. "Never mind. You're here now and we've got new things to worry about."

"We?"

"Yes, _we_. We're in this together, aren't we?"

Sam studied his mug of ale for a moment, refusing to meet Tristan's gaze. "It would be a shame for me to back out now after all these years looking out for each other."

Tristan ignored the uneasy feeling that crept into him. "Good. First things first, what happened to our horses?"

"They ran with all the other horses when the dragon came. If none of the cowardly chevaliers and mercenaries who fled with them manage to catch them, I am sure they will show up here sooner or later."

Tristan was disappointed that Durendal had run from the battle, but he didn't blame the beast. It probably would have been a smarter idea than actually fighting the dragon had been. But if the horse didn't show up soon, they wouldn't have a quick way out. They'd have to resort to the old fashioned way of walking on their own two legs. The thought that Leliana and her Templars had also been left without horses perked him up somewhat, though. "Keep an eye out for them, Sam. We need them more than ever."

Sam nodded. "Will do." He put the mug to his lips and gulped down a mouthful of ale. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. He wore no mail. "That Leliana, the legendary Leliana… she is something. I finally get to see her in the flesh and those fucking tales don't do her justice. She's beautiful, Tristan."

"And deadly," Tristan replied, not amused by Sam's admiration of the bard.

"Why did you ever let that alluring, naughty sister go?"

"And here I thought you didn't like Orlesians, Sam."

"She's part Ferelden, though, isn't she?"

Tristan leaned against the window, crossing his arms in frustration. "Leliana is loyal to the chantry. Leliana wants to take me back to Orlais to face the Divine for the Maker only knows what. That is what's going to happen if I don't get out of this blasted room."

Sam sucked in his breath. "Tough luck. Maybe you can seduce her, eh?"

Tristan frowned hard at Sam.

"No?" Sam shrugged. "You don't find her attractive enough?"

"That's not the point." Tristan sighed loudly. "Even if I considered that, she wouldn't fall for that."

"Losing your magic touch? Maybe I'll give her a go. I can be very persuasive…"

Tristan shook his head. "There's got to be another way."

Sam hit the window frame with his free hand. "You can always escape through the window."

"Are you really that stupid or are you just too drunk to see what's before you? Do you really think I can fit through this narrow hole of a window? I doubt even Catriel could fit."

"All right, all right." Sam backed away. It was his turn to frown. "Not all of us are good at strategy."

"I'm sorry Sam. I'm just so... restless. I want to get out of here, but I don't want anyone to get hurt in the process. Leliana, for all she's threatening my freedom, she doesn't deserve that, and neither do the people of Honnleath."

Sam remained silent and thoughtful, much to Tristan's surprise. He gazed at the ground before him before looking up and plastering that infectious grin back onto his face. "Well, as a last resort, I can carve that window into a bigger hole."

Tristan grinned back, despite his annoyance at Sam's lack of severity. "As a last resort," he agreed. "Though it'd be faster for me to blast through it if I could." Tristan flexed his palms, feeling the lack of mana within himself. The Templars must have worked something on him again.

"So what are you going to do?" Sam asked, seriously now, for which Tristan was grateful.

"I'm waiting on Catriel for something." Tristan needed to know what the town council was planning before he made any move. He really did not want anyone to get hurt in his attempt at freedom, and so he had to plan carefully whatever it was he came up with.

"That girl..." Sam nodded his head, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere at that moment. "That girl is a bloody lioness. You should have seen what she did to that prick Thierry."

"Thierry?" Tristan asked worriedly. Catriel had not told him what happened and he'd let it go, fearing the girl would break down once more, but he sensed it was nothing good. "By the Maker, Sam, what happened?"

Sam broke into a mumble, his words jumbled together incoherently. Tristan couldn't follow anything the man was saying and he wondered if Sam had ever sobered up since the celebration.

"Sam," Tristan interrupted firmly. "Slow down and stop mumbling."

Sam nodded. "It was while you were off fighting the dragon that the village boy returned to the battle without Cat. I questioned him severely and the poor sod only stood there shaking, telling me she had been right behind him. Stupid children thought they'd come back to help. Anyway, I followed the boy's directions to where he'd last seen her. And I found her, hacking the head off that prick's body."

"She did that?" Tristan asked in amazement. Severing a head from a body was tough work, harder than many made it look.

"I stood there and watched her for a time." Sam's look was dark. "She'd been alone with that asshole. The way she hacked at him... He deserved that and more."

"Bloody hell," Tristan said. He remembered what Magalie had told him about the crooked chevalier and he shuddered. He wondered just what had happened before Sam got there. The girl would not tell him before and now he knew in his gut it was something horrible. He turned on Sam. "Make yourself useful and bring Catriel here. We need to discuss what we are going to do. Don't let the Templars stop you from coming in this time."

Sam bowed in mockery. "Fine. I do your bidding, master." He turned to leave.

"And Sam, lay low and stay out of trouble," Tristan called out as Sam's back faded around a corner. There was, after all, a bounty on his head as well. Somehow, though, Tristan knew it was a warning too late in coming.

...

Amalia had told her where the town met for matters of importance, and evidently, the Hero being among them was a matter of importance. But so far, Catriel could not get anywhere near the meeting. When she tried to file through with the others, a burly man had folded his arms, stomped his feet, and glared daggers at her before barring her way through.

"Foreigners not allowed," he'd said.

So Catriel had turned away, letting her thoughts of killing the _shem_ fade away into the back of her mind, and wandered the side of the great hall. She ran her hands along the wood, checking for holes where she might be able to peek in. She put her ear to the walls, hoping to hear something, but instead heard nothing. She was going to fail at Tristan's mission if she didn't find a way inside.

She spun around back towards where she came from, intending to sneak her way through the front door if that was possible, and came face to face with the boy.

"You're a knife ear?" he asked, looking her over warily, surprise written all over his face.

"_Knife ear!?_" Catriel remembered having her hood up for most of the battle. The boy probably had not realized he'd been sent to help an elf. That did not excuse him however. She brushed her hand against the hilt of Etosa's dagger. The boy did not miss where it lingered. "What does that make you then? Blunt ear? Mouse ear? Or maybe..." Catriel withdrew the dagger from her belt and lunged swiftly at the boy, who jumped back in time for no damage to be done, "... no-ears!?" Catriel finished breathlessly.

He held his hands out, palms up, to his side. "Sorry, I meant no offense."

"Well, I took it." Catriel held the dagger in the air between them.

"Will you take my apology, too?"

Catriel scrutinized the boy. He attempted a half smile, which came out crooked and rather innocent looking. He really did look harmless. And it didn't seem like he meant to be harsh or mean with his words. Catriel sheathed her dagger. "Fine."

"I really am sorry." The boy lowered his eyes and kicked at the ground before him. "We don't get many elves around here. I was just, surprised, that's all. Though I should have known by your name. I thought it rather exotic."

"Exotic?" Catriel snorted in amusement.

The boy shrugged, looked up slyly, and repeated her name. "Not many girls around here with such a beautiful name."

Catriel rolled her eyes. "And what is your name? Bif? Or maybe something utterly human like... Teagan?"

The boy took offense and straightened out, jutting out his chin proudly. "Sloan."

Catriel chuckled, even though she thought that his name suited him quite well and wasn't at all an ordinary _shem_ name. It spoke of mystery and roguishness, all things he seemed to embody. He wanted to be more than just a farm boy, she suspected. Sloan sarcastically chuckled with her. And that caused her to stop her own laughter and purse her lips into a frowning pout.

"I've been watching you." Sloan leaned back against the wall of the hall and folded his arms. "You want to get into that meeting, don't you?"

Catriel crossed her own arms, enraged that the boy had been watching her, but more so that he knew what she wanted. "So?"

Sloan studied his hand. He wore the gloves of an archer, which left his fingers naked and free for a better hold on his weaponry. _He definitely wants to be more than a farm boy_, Catriel thought, following his gaze.

"I may be able to get you inside," he said finally.

Catriel narrowed her gaze on the boy. Her suspicions were raised in warning. But she ignored them. "Could you?"

He nodded, smiling that crooked smile again. Somehow it was endearing. "I could."

"And what would it cost me?"

"Nothing." Sloan shrugged. "Nothing but the pleasure of your company. So are you in?"

She regarded him warily, but in the end, decided he was harmless enough. Besides, she needed to know what the town was saying about Tristan. If Sloan tried anything funny, she had left her pack and her sword with Amalia, but she had Etosa's dagger, and she knew how to use it.

...

Sloan led her to a small dwelling adjacent to the hall. She thought he was going to lead her inside, instead, he jumped onto a row of barrels and climbed onto the roof. She gave him a look of disbelief, but he grinned and held his hand out to her to follow. She didn't take it, making her own way onto the barrels, showing him just how agile she was, and pounced onto the roof without his help. He didn't seem surprised at this, only walked to one end of the roof, took a deep breath, broke into a run, and just as he reached the edge of the other side of the roof, leaped into the air. Catriel watched him briefly soar through the air before he landed onto the hall's roof on the other side, rolling to a stop.

"By the gods," she muttered under her breath._ This farm boy certainly must get into a lot of mischief. _With a grin of her own, she mimicked Sloan, leaping through the air to reach the roof of the hall. She landed on her feet, for about a second and then she fell onto her knees. Sloan came to help her up but she brushed him off.

"What now?" she asked him.

They had landed on one part of the roof. A raised part of the hall emerged from the middle, with its own roof. Sloan pointed to the raised part of the hall.

"There's some loose boards there that lead to the attic. From there is yet another loose board which looks out over the rafters of the hall below. We can see some of it, but most of all, we can hear almost perfectly whatever is being said."

And so that was what led them to the small space in the attic, where Sloan rested very close to her as she watched the meeting below them. She had a sudden feeling this was what he meant by the "pleasure of her company". She ignored his arm against hers and focused on what was being said below.

At first, the townsfolk – farmers mostly – talked only of mundane every day things; the upcoming harvest, the stockpile of wood they would need for the winter, the slaughter of cattle for winter, and things like that. It all threatened to put Catriel to sleep, until someone brought up the dragon. Catriel perked up instantly.

They talked of the injured, and for a second Catriel felt Sloan flinch beside her, and thought she imagined it, but then she was distracted by the constant chatter below. Someone asked about the possibility of it coming back and attacking their village.

"We nearly didn't survive the darkspawn attack all those years ago. How can we survive a dragon attack? Already some of us lie injured."

"The dragon won't come back," somebody reassured. Catriel thought it might be Matthias, but she couldn't be sure for the voice was out of her sight. The heads she did see were unrecognizable. There was some nervous chatter before another voice rose above the others, this time a woman's.

"Who is the man that scared the dragon away? Why is he being held under guard by the Seeker? Why is there a Seeker in town?"

"The man is a mage, obviously," someone answered.

"I heard it was the Hero of Ferelden," another voice broke through loudly. And then the meeting erupted into boisterous discussion. Catriel could hardly understand the things being said. The meeting was getting out of control, with shouting and raised voices, until someone thumped a staff onto the floor and called for quiet.

"Who is that?" Catriel asked Sloan in a whisper.

Sloan squinted below. "That is Steapa, the mayor."

"The Seeker has assured me that she will be leaving as soon as she can, with the mage that drove the dragon away. It is not our business to question such an esteemed member of the chantry," the mayor explained.

"But if it is the Hero of Ferelden..." somebody began to protest.

"_If it is_ the Hero of Ferelden," the mayor interrupted, "then we can do nothing. We cannot help him. We cannot even seek the bounty on his head. I tell you all now, it is better that we let the Seeker deal with him, for to aid him in any way would bring the wrath of the king down upon us. And to betray him after all he has done for us, would bring us nothing but sorrow. A bag of coins only lasts so long, but the fame – _the shame_ – of being the town that betrayed the Hero of _Ferelden_, lasts much longer."

"But my family could use the money," someone called out angrily.

The hall below Catriel threatened to return to a shouting match, but the mayor thumped his staff again. "We wash our hands of the man held in Matthias' house, whoever he is."

"He saved us twice! Three times even if you count the Blight and the archdemon!"

"He betrayed Ferelden. I say turn him over to Redcliffe and collect the bounty on his head."

People began shouting. Some were in favour of turning in the mysterious man, others wanted to help him, and others agreed with Steapa. One last voice hollered above the others, and this time Catriel was sure it was Matthias.

"To do nothing at all, my friends, is the greatest profanity proposed in this hall today." The hall quieted and everyone seemed to give their attention to Matthias. "The man in my house _is_ the Hero of Ferelden." There was an audible gasp throughout the throng gathered. "Mayor Steapa's reasoning is sound. If we help the Hero, we risk ourselves. If we betray him, without knowing the full truth of what happened I might add, we risk becoming hated by the rest of Ferelden. But Mayor Steapa wishes to do nothing at all. Which is the lesser evil, I ask? We are a small town, ever open to great threats. When the Blight came, we were all but forgotten by the rest of the country – until the Hero and his companions came. They saved us, with great risk to themselves. The Hero did not have to risk his life to save my daughter but he did. And he did so again, yesterday, by fighting off a dragon. He did not question whether we deserved to be saved or not. If we were good enough to be saved, he just did it. And now, like a slap in the face, we question his own worthiness to be saved. I don't know what the chantry's quarrel with him is and even I doubt the validity of the bounty on his head. We have a chance to help him who saved us all, the good and the evil among us. So what do we do?"

There was silence for a long moment while the people absorbed Matthias' speech. Catriel thought how Matthias would make for a better mayor than Steapa, and then the mayor spoke again.

"There is still time to think on what we should do. Everyone should go home and think on what has been said here today. Tomorrow is a new day, and tomorrow we will decide on what to do with the Hero of Ferelden."

And with that, the folk gathered at the meeting began to file out. Catriel stayed where she was, committing to memory all that had been said so she could report back to Tristan. He had a lot of admirers still, but something he'd done had turned many against him. She still didn't know what it was, but she was sure it was what he'd been exiled for. She suddenly wished it had been said in the meeting, so she wouldn't have to ask Tristan or even Sam for the truth. They hadn't budged before, but perhaps now they would.

"I'm sorry I left you alone." Sloan's voice broke through her thoughts. They were alone now, the hall having been completely cleared out.

"You knew your father was in trouble. It was only right to go back and help." Catriel leaned back away from the view of the rafters. Sloan pushed the loose board back in place. She thought of the day before, when she'd convinced Sloan to run back to the battle. It felt like a lifetime ago, but in many ways was still too fresh in her mind.

"But I should have been with you," he said in clear frustration. "I only made things worse for him and now… I don't know if he will ever wake up."

That flinch she felt from him when the injured were mentioned, it had been for his father. In some way, she knew how he felt. That gaping hole inside filled only with guilt, it was hard to repair, if ever. "You might have died had you stayed with me. Your father might have died."

Sloan said nothing and held only a thoughtful look on his face. She studied him from under her lashes – feeling his closeness – his lithe, muscular body, the way strands of black hair fell over his face, a face not unpleasant to look at. He could almost pass as one of the people. Something overcame her then, borne out of what happened in the last couple of days, something she could not understand, and she reached out and caressed his face with her hand. She wanted to be in control now and this boy, scarce older than she was, let her willingly.

Catriel closed the short distance between them and planted herself astride the boy's lap. He didn't seem to know what to do with her and she didn't quite know what she was doing. So she concentrated on his mouth. They parted slightly and his breath quickened. She moved her hand to his neck, feeling his pulse race. But she felt nothing inside of herself and she badly wanted and needed to.

Her hand lowered further, feeling Sloan's hard chest underneath the shirt he wore. And next it lowered to his abdomen then to something even lower, equally as hard, though not always that way. He moaned, softly, and closed his eyes. She pushed him backward and he lay on his back. She leaned forward. Her lips hovered over his, ready to take the plunge, to cross a line that could not be undone, and Sloan touched the small of her back, urging her on, and then she stopped.

"Catriel! Cat! Has anybody seen the cat? Ser-Pounce-a-lot – I mean – the girl?"

Catriel removed herself from Sloan in a sudden, inexplicable panic. She crawled through the loose boards and out onto the roof outside. She lowered herself to the edge of the roof, glanced at the distance, certain she could make it down without hurting herself, and let go, falling to the ground and rolling hard to a stop. She got up, dusted herself off and peeked around the corner of the hall. It was Sam, clutching a mug of ale in his hand. Even through his drunken vision, he saw her.

"There you are, I think," he said, squinting and pointing toward her. "Yon _Hero_ uncle beckons."

She cantered up to him, ignoring the looks of some of the folk who still lingered by the meeting hall and slightly embarrassed at the scene he was making. She shushed him, her mind harkening back to the town meeting moments before. It was not safe to mention the _Hero_. Not everyone was on his side. And what was this nonsense about an uncle?

"He wants to see us both," Sam attempted to explain, though his thoughts were coming out slurred.

"All right." Catriel pushed the man towards Matthias' house. "Just keep your big mouth shut."

Sam chuckled. "It takes one to know one."

"I'm going. We're going. Be quiet," Catriel warned again.

As she continued to push Sam forward to Matthias' house, she spied Sloan by the wall of the town meeting hall, a blush over his face, rearranging his shirt over his pants hastily. A smile overcame her then as she realized the power she held within her hands – not magic, but perhaps just as powerful. Powerful enough to bring a man to his knees – if she'd not stopped when she did.


	30. Chapter TwentyNine: Brooding Hearts

Chapter Twenty-Nine  
Brooding Hearts

Early evening was upon them and Tristan could do nothing but pace around his makeshift prison and worry. Neither Sam or Catriel had returned, making him wonder what kind of mischief they'd gotten themselves into. They both were prone to such antics and though Sam was nearly twice the girl's age, they were much more alike than either imagined. Prideful, boastful, neither knew when to close their mouths or when to cease following the trail of their curiousity.

And so Tristan fretted, thinking of all the things that might have gone wrong. Perhaps Sam had been captured for the bounty on his head. Or maybe the younger man had gotten into one of his famous drunken brawls. Or perhaps he lay dead in a wheat field at that very moment.

_No_. Tristan shook his head. _The fool is probably warming some woman's bed. But what of Catriel?_

Maybe his niece had finally had enough of his lies and taken to the road. He really wouldn't blame her. She might now be miles away, alone and defenseless on a bandit filled highway. And for all Tristan knew, the chevaliers and mercenaries that survived the battle with the dragon were still out there, still searching for Catriel. And she might be alone. Yet, one thing was for certain in Tristan's mind, she had proven herself to be anything but defenseless. That did not, however, stop a shudder from running through him.

A light breeze drifted in through the small window. Tristan went to it, watched the leaves of a faraway tree overturn in the wind and closed his eyes to the fresh air. It would be night soon, and if they did not get there before then, all his planning would go to waste.

Just when he thought his plans would indeed drift away with the wind, a commotion outside the door drew him away from the window. A shout of indignation as the door opened captured his full attention.

"Sister Nightingale has said there was to be no more visitors!"

Sam and Catriel burst forth through the threshold, a protesting Templar following them through.

"We've come to pray for our friend," Sam said as he kneeled down unsteadily onto his knees.

The Templar eyed the gesture with suspicion. "But…"

"Surely… _Sister Nightingale_… would not begrudge me a moment of prayer alone with my companions?" Tristan mimicked Sam and bent forward onto his knees, his hands clasped in devotion. Catriel did the same, showing no reluctance, though Tristan knew it was in her heart. The Templar frowned, his hesitation apparent by the way he rubbed his jaw line, and then slowly backed away through the threshold. He clearly believed Leliana would permit this, or else he did not want to risk refusing and finding it to be true.

"Fine," the Templar said. "But don't take long."

"There are no time limits set on devotion to the Maker, wouldn't you agree?" Tristan arched a smug brow in the Templar's direction, all the while plastering a smirk on his face.

The Templar grunted, mumbled something incoherent in Orlesian and then closed the door behind him.

"Finally." Sam leaped to his feet and stretched his arms out tiredly.

"Not so loud," Tristan warned with a nod to the door. He pulled himself up, feeling a sharp pain in his back. He tried to suppress a grimace of pain but to no avail. "We're supposed to be praying," he said quietly.

Sam leaned against the wooden table and Tristan held his breath, thinking the old piece of furniture would crumble under the man's weight. But it did not and Sam kept his eyes fastened on Catriel, who remained on her knees.

"That color suits you, Cat," he said, possibly noting her blue tunic for the first time.

Catriel remained expressionless and looked anywhere but at Sam. "_Thirst is the end of drinking and sorrow is the end of drunkenness_. That is what my mother would say to you."

Sam let out a snort of amusement. "And what would you say? I rather like the words that come out of your mouth."

Catriel stood up, folded her arms, and turned narrowed eyes onto Sam. Tristan, impatient to get to the root of the matter before Leliana returned, was about to put an end to the current conversation when Catriel finally answered. "Drunkenness doesn't suit you."

A look of affront overcame Sam's features, yet he attempted to laugh it off. "Give someone a compliment and this is what I get? Is it any wonder I prefer Wilhelm's special brew for company right now? Wilhelm tastes good, makes me feel good, and doesn't insult me."

Catriel let her hands fall to her waist. "Let your head catch up to your body and grow up already, Sam Longshot."

"Says the girl," Sam retorted.

"Enough of this," Tristan broke in loudly. He glanced at the door and when it was certain the Templar would not come in, he continued in a much quieter though still firm voice. "We are all in a foul mood. We've been on the run for days on end. We've been hungry. We've been through all kinds of weather. We've fought a battle or two. And now, I at least, am stuck here. Together we can get through this mess, but we have to stop these petty fights. They don't mean anything in the end."

His two companions remained silent, brooding, neither of them looking at each other or at Tristan. He wondered what had caused all the fuss, what was going on in either's mind, but they did not have the time for him to sit, inquire, and hold their hands through whatever they were going through. And he doubted they would even tell him or let him, prideful as they both were.

"Catriel, did you find out what's happening in town?"

She turned to Tristan. "The mayor suggested they do nothing at all and let be what is to be. Matthias seemed to suggest they should help you. They know you're the Hero, all of the town. You can partially thank Sam for that." Catriel briefly turned her eyes on Sam, who ignored her, before turning back to Tristan. "Some in the town want to hand you over to Redcliffe and collect the bounty."

It was as he thought it would be. He didn't blame the people who wanted to hand him over – but they did not know the truth. He knew though, that even if they knew the truth, the lure of coin was too much for some to ignore. "So what did they decide?"

"The mayor said they would meet again tomorrow."

Then it definitely had to be that night. He turned to Sam. "Did you find the horses?"

"I did not."

"Did you even try?"

Sam gave him a surly look. "I did, _master_. I've been looking ever since we lost them."

Tristan shook his head at Sam's comments, and beyond that, he decided to ignore it. There was something more important to discuss. "Be ready tonight. With or without the horses we are leaving. It is not safe to stay any longer."

"So soon?" A thoughtful look passed over Sam before it was shrugged away. "You finally figured out how to get out of this room?"

"I did. And while I do that, you two will wait by the edge of town. And then we will turn back north, go west to continue to the Brecilian Forest through the Hinterlands, thus avoiding Redcliffe. No more Imperial Highway for us."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Sam straightened up, a worried look on his face. "The Blight stained that land almost irreparably. Won't there be darkspawn there?"

"Would you like to take a stroll through the Korcari Wilds instead?"

"Fuck no." Sam walked to the window and looked out. "Turning back north is more than fine by me."

"What's in the Wilds?" Catriel asked, her attention to the conversation finally sparked by Sam's reaction.

"An old hag called Flemeth," Tristan answered.

"An old witch," Sam added. Fading beams of light shone onto his face. "Tristan killed her."

"Asha'bellanar?" Catriel clutched the edge of her tunic, bunching it up nervously. Asha'bellanar, if Tristan remembered correctly, was the Dalish name for Flemeth. "You cannot kill Asha'bellanar, she is immortal."

And Tristan had his doubts that he actually had. But he didn't put breath to them. "It does not matter because we are not going through the Korcari Wilds. That land is still reeling from the Blight, more so than the Hinterlands."

"The darkspawn will be there, too," Sam pointed out.

"Darkspawn?" Catriel repeated, though more curious than afraid Tristan suspected.

"I can sense darkspawn, but I cannot sense men or a dragon. And because the Hinterlands are reputed to be a land of waste and monsters, we're not likely to be followed this time around." That was what Tristan gambled on. The Wilds would be a sure bet that no one would follow them, but even he did not want to venture there. He did not want to put Catriel and Sam in that kind of danger. The Hinterlands were less certain to deter anyone on their trail, but if he was right, it would pay off and they'd be at the forest's edge in no time.

"You can sense darkspawn?" Catriel asked him, disbelief lining her voice, visible in her eyes.

"It's a Grey Warden thing. They won't explain it. Trust me, I've tried," Sam answered for him.

"Mostly because we can't explain it ourselves."

Sam turned away from the window. "So what about Leliana?"

"I will take care of her, don't worry."

Sam grinned mischievously, a look of knowing passing through his features. Tristan could only shake his head, knowing full well what Sam was thinking of.

"Just be ready tonight. We don't have much time."

And with that, the Templar thumped on the door, warning them their time of prayer was at an end. Tristan would put all his cards on the table this night and beyond. And though it pained him to leave Durendal behind – the horse had become more than just a mount over the years – it had to be tonight. He feared if he waited any longer, blood would be shed, and he didn't want to be the reason for that.

…

Catriel wanted to be alone. She wanted to be somewhere where people did not look at her like she was an oddity, where she couldn't imagine them staring at her in judgment for the stupid story Sam had spread about her.

"_The Lioness_," she grumbled. "Stupid Sam."

Where that place was ended up being at the far edge of town, where she would in a few hours wait for Tristan. For now, she watched the sun set far to the west, legs dangling from the large willow tree she sat upon. She was alone, until that boy climbed up the tree beside her.

Sloan smirked crookedly at her and she found herself rolling her eyes. If he came there looking to finish what they'd started earlier that day, well, she would have no scruples about pushing him out of the tree. It wasn't such a long drop, she noted.

"You look like you can use a friend."

_Friend? By the gods, one afternoon together and he already thinks us friends?_

"I want to be alone," she retorted.

"It just so happens that this spot is exactly the place I come to be alone. I wasn't following you, I swear it." He thumped his heart for emphasis.

She gave him a sideways glance, deciding whether or not she could believe him. "Bullshit," she finally said.

"No, bullshit smells far worse than I do. I've had the pleasure of getting up close and personal to that type of excrement before."

"What?" Catriel asked in confusion.

Sloan continued to smirk. "My father rubbed my nose in it once, when he caught me playing with my bow instead of tilling the field. And that was the biggest bull in town, the main stud. You could just imagine how big his shit was." Sloan gestured with his hands, painting a mental image of a very large, round, piece of bull turd.

A giggle escaped through Catriel's lips. She gave Sloan a playful whack in the shoulder because she was annoyed by him, but also, though she hated to admit it, he amused her. "I hope you washed your face real good."

"I did. Seven buckets of hot water and a year's supply of soap. Let me tell you, my father thought twice about doing that to me again. Soap does not come cheap here in Honnleath."

"Why seven?"

"My lucky number. Everything has to be done in sevens for me. My quiver, for instance, must have seven, fourteen, twenty-one or twenty-eight arrows in it after I use it."

"What happens if you have eight left?"

"Then I shoot something."

"That's odd."

"I know." Sloan smiled and brushed a strand from his face. "My father hates it. But in my defense, I don't always rely on the number. I won't eat seven eggs for breakfast – though mostly because we only have one hen."

Catriel gave him a weak smile in return. "How is your father?"

"Looks like the angry old goat is going to pull through."

"That is good."

Sloan nodded his agreement and they sat wordless for a few moments. Catriel thought of her mother for the countless time that day. _Surely… she is alive._ She had to be alive. She blocked out the words of that evil man, who certainly had only said those things the more to hurt Catriel. Anyone could have told him the name of the rebel leader. He didn't have to have seen her for himself to come up with something hurtful. And Tristan believed her alive. Perhaps she should let him ask his friend. Then again, hope for her to be alive and to see her again gave Catriel a purpose beyond finishing this journey. Without it, she didn't know what she would do.

A water skin appeared before her lap. Sloan held it out, pushing it toward her, offering it. She hadn't noticed he'd had it with him before that moment.

"Go on," he urged, "it'll raise your spirits."

Was she really that sullen? She accepted it warily. She turned it over in her hands, wondering what was in there. "What is it?"

"Wilhelm's special brew. Honnleath's finest, and only ale I might add."

That made her think of Sam. Her bitterness threatened to return, though she did not know why she was angry with him. Yes, he spread a tale of her; the lioness who took down an Orlesian chevalier all on her own, which was true, though not as grand as Sam made it out to be. The old Catriel would have loved that. It proved her prowess as a warrior. But who she was now… she didn't know who she was anymore.

"You smell good, by the way." Catriel rested her head on Sloan's shoulder and breathed in his scent. "Like leather and earth. Sweat and hard work."

"As long as I don't smell like flowers or cheap perfume, I'll be happy."

Catriel chuckled and put the water skin to her lips. She gulped down a large portion of the brew.

"Easy with that," Sloan said, tilting the water skin away from her mouth.

It might have been too much. Her throat burned and the oaky taste became all too apparent to her in a sudden, tasteful moment. She had to spit out the excess. "That is disgusting!" She held the water skin out for Sloan to take back. "Wilhelm's special brew, are you certain it isn't his piss?"

Sloan laughed as he took the skin back. "Unless Wilhelm was an undead, even then I'm not sure if they can piss, I am certain."

"Undead? You believe in that?" Catriel watched carefully for Sloan's answer.

He shrugged. "Why not? You saw the dragon. If they can exist, why can't the undead?"

"It is silly." Catriel flipped her hair to the side. "No one can rise from the dead."

"Necromancers can make it so."

Catriel exhaled her contempt for that belief in a long sigh. "Now you are spouting child's tales for certain. Even if necromancers existed, it is forbidden. Why play with the will of the gods?"

Sloan was not amused by her rebuff. "There are blood mages. There are abominations – one even destroyed the chantry in Kirkwall."

"Sloan, these are tales to frighten children to bed."

"Just because you can't see it or didn't see it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist or didn't happen."

Catriel would not admit to his sound logic, so she let the quiet ride over them. _Fool boy_. He believed too much for his own good. She bet he thought that if his father died, he could bring him back from the dead. Well, she would not be so foolish as to think that possible for her mother.

_If she is dead…_

"What happened to Wilhelm?" she asked, more to stop her thoughts from fixating on her mother and less so because she really wanted to know.

"He was murdered by his own golem."

"A golem?" Catriel laughed. "You have a wild imagination."

"It is the truth. Ask your uncle – he reactivated the thing. Shale it was called. I've never seen it myself. This all happened before I was born."

"My uncle?"

"Yes," Sloan answered, giving her a look like she was some silly dimwit, "your illustrious uncle the Hero of Ferelden. You don't have to pretend with me, I won't turn him in. He has more wild tales than anyone I know. He'll tell you the undead exist, too. He defeated a whole army of them at Redcliffe."

Catriel turned away from Sloan's gaze. That was the second time someone had named Tristan her uncle. Not to mention the creepy darkspawn in the dark that had said something about her blood, and the blood of the Grey Warden.

"Was that to be a secret, you being his niece?" Sloan asked, confusion in his voice. "I overheard Amalia say it were so."

Catriel didn't respond to that. "I suppose you believe in werewolves, too, if you believe in the silly tales of the Hero."

"I've never heard that one," Sloan admitted. "But how can you not believe in the tales?"

Catriel studied the distance to the ground. "_Dareth shiral_, Sloan." She looked the _shem_ in the eye one last time. His brown eyes were perplexed by her words, his mouth ready to open in protest at their tone of finality, but she held her fingers to his mouth, keeping him quiet.

And then she jumped, landing on her feet like a cat, and stalking away like a lioness on the hunt.


	31. Chapter Thirty: The Flight of Birds

Chapter Thirty  
The Flight of Birds

He rested his forehead, his palms against the smooth, worn wood of the door. He could hear her voice – so sweet and flattering in its lilt. Strange, how near she was after all these years. There had been a time when he thought he would never get over her. And then Brenna came into his life again and Leliana was no longer so important. And now Brenna was long gone and Leliana was there, in the next room.

Tristan lowered his hand to the handle, took a pause to breathe in and out, and turned it. It wasn't locked, just as he'd suspected. He pulled it open.

All heads turned to him. To his surprise, the Templar was not guarding the door, but sat at a table with the other one and with Leliana. The Templars half rose from their chairs at the sight of Tristan, until Leliana motioned for them to stay seated. Instead, she stood up and walked to Tristan, meeting him halfway between the door and the table.

"This isn't wise, Tristan," she said, looking up at him in warning.

"Remember when we used to stand guard at night, in camp?"

"Yes," Leliana answered, though her expression was confused at the answering question he gave her.

"And you would talk and talk for hours. There were times when you talked yourself into sleep. And when you would wake up, I was still watching the night. You told me once that the night grants us a reprieve from our troubles."

Leliana smiled, remembering perhaps, and he hoped, what he referred to. "I remember this, but I…"

He interrupted her. "Let's go for a walk in the night, like old times." He glowered at the Templars. "Just you and me. Let us forget our troubles for a time."

Leliana pursed her lips into a frown. "If you're hoping that I will talk myself into sleep and that you can then escape, then you've wasted your breath."

"No," Tristan held her eyes, "I will do the talking this time. I promise."

He felt like turning away from her in shame, for he did plan on escaping. He was a professional liar by now, though, so he held onto her eyes, spreading his mouth into a smile of encouragement he knew might still be able to charm her after all these years. And it seemed to work, for after a moment of hesitation she agreed to his request. Much to the annoyance of the Templars.

…

They strolled through Honnleath in the dark, the path lit up by the stars thronging the night sky. The silence between them was comfortable. Leliana trusted him, just as he hoped she would. It would not make things any easier though.

_You're a monster_, he thought to himself.

He came to a stop in front of a fence that overlooked a large field of wheat. The wheat swayed in the wind, golden waves in the starlight.

"I thought you were going to talk," Leliana cut through the silence. "I know that look. You have something on your mind."

Tristan stared out over the field, considering well his next words. "I want you to set me free, Leliana, before anybody gets hurt."

Leliana sighed and leaned forward against the fence, refusing to look at him. "I cannot do that."

"You put yourself in danger, holding me here."

"We won't be here for much longer."

"It doesn't matter. There are men who would do anything for the bounty on my head, even if a servant of the chantry stands in their way." He knew he spoke the truth. He wanted Leliana to see the same. He couldn't bear to see her hurt because of him. Not again.

"That is why we leave tomorrow, while the town is in meeting." Leliana looked across the wheat field. She was ever a strong soul. He felt almost silly for thinking she would get hurt, but that sense of fragility she emitted had always given him cause to think it just so. She might possess the fighting skills equal to that of any champion from here to the Imperium, yet if faced with a horde of men who wanted him, dead or alive, would she be able to hold them off? He knew she would try. And he knew her life would be in peril for that. He didn't want that. How could he convince her to let him go?

"I don't want you to get hurt, Leliana."

She sighed, and glanced over her shoulder with a kind gleam reflecting from her eyes. "I will permit you to say goodbye to your companions."

"My companions…" Tristan reached for Leliana but stopped short of touching her. Instead, he ran his hand through his hair. "Sam is like a brother to me. Catriel is my niece."

She turned away from him, her eyes closed briefly in pain before she responded with sternness. "Do not make this harder than it has to be."

"You were never cruel. What happened to you, Leliana?"

Leliana looked over her shoulder again, this time with a dangerous glint in her eyes. "I do my duty to the Divine. What more should I do?"

"Question that duty," Tristan responded with force.

"I know its importance, no matter my feelings for you."

He held her eyes and didn't miss the longing on her face. "And what are those feelings?"

She turned away again, wouldn't look at him. Tristan realized he could not sway her with words. But it did not matter. He was already out of that room. The way the rest of his plan played out was up to her. Though truthfully, he didn't have much of a plan in the first place. It already threatened to fail.

"Leliana," he said, reaching for her arm and pulling her gently from the fence. "Do you trust me still?"

Her eyes went wide as he stroked her arm and closed the distance between them. He hugged her to him and felt her heart racing beneath her chest.

"After what you did to me, how could I?" Yet, even so, she leaned into him. Her body was warm, trusting. For a moment, Tristan was tempted, like Sam had suggested, to seduce her. It would be so easy. They were halfway there already.

But he did not need to. He could not afford to.

"Oh, Leliana," he whispered, caressing her face, watching with a tightness in his chest as she closed her eyes at the movement. "I'm sorry, but you should never trust a known liar."

Her eyes flashed open in alarm. His hand tingled as it released what little magic it could. But it was enough. Leliana slumped in his arms. He laid her carefully on the ground. He pressed that same hand to his lips and then to her forehead.

"Sleep well, _amour_."

With no time to waste, Tristan fled into the night.

…

The grey light of dawn spread across the eastern sky. A dove cooed mournfully to the wind, receiving no answering call. Dew glistened over the fields, wild and overgrown with sweet grass and dotted with yellow flowers. Catriel knew it was time.

The long night spent walking hurriedly away from Honnleath had come to an end. The long walk spent thinking about lies and truths and truths and lies and what was what could go on no longer. She could see his face clearly now. He could not hide in the shadows. He could not and would not refuse her this time.

Catriel stopped.

Sam and Tristan continued to walk ahead in the dirt path, Tristan with a slight limp. And Catriel stood alone, waiting for them to notice her lack of footsteps. It didn't take too long, for throughout the night one or the other had constantly glanced back, making sure she followed even though it had been near impossible to see through the dark at times. Sam did so then, and when he saw Catriel had stopped far behind, he whacked Tristan in the shoulder and gestured behind them toward Catriel. The men turned and came back for her.

"Why have you stopped? We have to keep going," Tristan said with urgency.

Catriel said nothing, only rooted herself to the ground. As the men neared her she focused on Tristan, noting the shape of his face, the straight edge of his nose, the slight slant to his eyes, eyes as blue as the sky, the swirl of his _vallas'lin_, half finished and faded, the golden-like color of his hair, tucked behind ears as round as the edge of a spoon.

How could it be true? They were as different as the moon and the sun. Yet more than one person had said it was so. Could she believe them? Could she take the word of the darkspawn creature that did not attack her because she shared the blood of a Warden? Which Warden? There was only one she knew of, and he stood before her now, stern and impatient.

"Catriel," he prodded.

"I am not moving from this spot until you tell me the truth." He made to reach for her arm, but she jerked her arm back and with her other she touched Etosa's dagger. "You will not move me by force, either."

"We don't have time for this," Tristan said. He looked at Sam for support, but Sam only shrugged.

"I'm not going to try and move her, will you?" Sam backed away. He did not look as impatient as Tristan. In fact, he looked rather relieved to be stopping.

Tristan glared at the younger man before turning back to Catriel. "What is this? Do you want to be found?"

"You're the one they're looking for," Catriel replied. "You're the one that has done something horrible enough to warrant exile, to warrant a bounty on your head. You're the _Hero_."

Tristan ran a hand through his hair, turned away from Catriel, and cursed something under his breath. When he faced her again, he appeared calmer. "Not all Crimson Knights and chevaliers fell in battle. Some fled. They may still be out there tracking us. All of us. You, me, and Sam. They will catch up to us the longer we dally. So what is it? Why do you refuse to move all of a sudden?"

Catriel folded her arms. "I want the truth."

"What truth?" He was clearly frustrated, raising his voice.

Catriel would not budge or balk. "You have so many lies, you do not even know which one I speak of," she scoffed.

"You're right of course." He threw his hands up in the air. "I am a liar. I am not proud of this. I wasn't always like this."

"So tell me the truth, once and for all… _uncle_."

His eyes widened, then narrowed, and he sighed like he was expecting that word – _uncle_. "I didn't know how you would react, so I held onto that information until the right time. I wasn't even sure in the beginning but now I know."

"It's true then?"

"You are my brother's daughter. My niece."

Catriel dropped her hands to her side. She took a step backwards, turning her eyes to the ground. How could her mother not tell her this? How could he not tell her this? And if he had not even been certain she was his niece, did that mean – "Does my father know I exist?" She thought back to her mother's letter – _Let your anger for this run to me, not at your father –_ and her fury grew. "Does he?"

"I'm not certain." Tristan stood his ground, unflinching when she stepped forward, shortening the space between them.

"You're taking me to somebody who does not even know I exist?"

"I didn't say that."

She shoved him, or at least tried to, for he didn't budge at all. "You are my uncle and you never thought to tell me?"

"I was afraid you'd react…"

"React how? With shame? In anger?" She tried to shove him again. She succeeded in forcing him back a step.

"Like this," he replied calmly.

"Well, I am ashamed to share your blood. Not because you are a _shem_, but because you're nothing but a bloody, cowardly liar! A fraud!"

It was too much for her. She felt like she'd been hanging by a thread and now that thread had been cut and she was stumbling. She didn't know what to think. She didn't know what else to say. She only knew she couldn't be there. So Catriel twisted on her heels and ran.

She coursed her way through the tall, sweet smelling grass of the field, running towards the rising sun. Her thoughts raced in every possible direction, running as fast and wild as she was.

_Does it really matter, if he's my uncle?_

The old Catriel might have been appalled to find out she was related to a human. It was right of Tristan, to be wary of revealing it to her. But she was different now, and she found it didn't matter at all.

_I only wished for honesty. Was that so hard to do from the beginning?_

She was tired of being lied to. Her mother had lied to her all along by not speaking of her father. Then these two came along and lied until they could not get away with it. Well, she did not have to take it anymore. She would go her own way and never look back.

Catriel continued to run, pushing grass and tall weeds which scratched her arms out of the way. Her heart pounded so loudly she could hear it in her ears.

A flock of birds, hundreds of them it seemed, took flight ahead of her. Catriel halted, the weight of her pack lurching forward nearly dragging her to the ground.

Strangely, she heard nothing behind her. Nobody had followed her. She watched the birds scatter into the sky, briefly blotting out the new sun. As she caught her breath, as her heart slowed, she realized the pounding in her ears had been more than just her heart.

_Hooves. _In front of her.

She twirled around, set her sights back to the dirt path, but it was too late.

A horseman broke through the grass behind her. Her mind flashed back to the chevalier in terror. Then suddenly, her feet were off the ground and all hopes of _revas_ – freedom – were gone.

…

"Let her go."

Tristan had been about to chase after the fleeing back of his niece. Yet, the tone of Sam's voice – commanding and harsh – brought him to an abrupt halt. He regarded his friend askance.

"Why?"

Sam unsheathed his sword. Tristan couldn't imagine any logical reason for the man to do so. His confusion must have shown on his face.

"It will be for the best," Sam offered.

"What?"

Sam let the flat of his blade rest against his shoulder. He seemed agitated, nervous to Tristan. It puzzled him, but he could not let Catriel go. He made to move after the girl and Sam lunged forward, blocking his way with his sword. Tristan eyed the blade which rested much too close to his neck for his liking and moved on to look at Sam, who could not meet his gaze.

"I said, let her go."

Tristan tensed then, the bad feeling running down his spine telling him something was wrong before he even saw the horsemen emerge from the fields on either side of them.

"Sam?" he asked once more, though he knew in his heart what was happening the moment he saw the heraldry on the shields of the horsemen.

A grey tower on a cliff as red as blood. Redcliffe – the arling of the king's uncle – here to take him in.

The horses surrounded him. Sam's blade remained threateningly close to his throat. Tristan bunched his fists into balls. He didn't trust himself not to explode in a fury of magic. He knew in his heart this was betrayal, but he wanted to hear it from his friend's mouth before he fought back.

"Sam," he bellowed. "Look at me."

Yet Sam said nothing. He could not even look Tristan in the eye. Sam's hand belied his anxiety as it started to shake. He brought his other hand over the hilt to steady the sword at Tristan's throat.

"What is going on?" Tristan tried once more. But it was wasted breath. Sam would not be moved to speak.

"You've been betrayed for the promise of a fortune in gold sovereigns."

Tristan shifted his gaze in the direction of the voice – familiar and known to him. "Berenger," he said with distaste. The Crimson Knight smiled at the recognition; smiled wider as Tristan noticed the horse the man sat atop of – Durendal.

Tristan's anger flared. He was sorely tempted to release a maelstrom upon all around him. A small part of him said to hell with it all, wanted to kill everyone and everything around him including his sorry self, but as he flicked his gaze between Sam and Durendal, a greater part of him knew to do so would be the cowardly way out.

"You did this?" He stared at Sam.

Sam could not answer.

Berenger pushed Durendal closer. "I found your friend yesterday morning, drunk and passed out in a field outside of Honnleath. I had him all trussed up, ready to take him away when he woke." Durendal became restless so close to Tristan, but Berenger pulled tightly on the reins and continued his story. "He begged to be let go, but I wanted him for myself. I wanted his bounty. Then he promised to bring me you – the bigger catch – in exchange for his freedom and a share of the bounty."

Tristan looked to Sam and knew by the shame in his eyes that Berenger's words were true. Sam gave him up to save himself. He could have said something to Tristan, a warning, a hint, anything. He could have forgotten about Berenger, seeing as the mercenary let him return to Honnleath alone. But Sam took the coin. Not even that, but a promise of coin.

Shocked, but truthfully, not too surprised – he knew the resentment had been smoldering for some time now – all the fight left Tristan.

"If you trust you won't be turned in as well, then so be it." Tristan reached for his sword. A chorus of swords being unsheathed pierced the air, all poised in his direction in a split second. The blade in front of him shook. He didn't care. He withdrew his sword from his back and threw it to the ground. As long as Catriel remained free, he didn't care what happened to him.

He should have held on a little longer, for as soon as the clang of his sword hitting the ground faded away, another horseman emerged from the field. Stanislaw rode out with a dreadful grin and Catriel lay draped before him, gagged and tied like a prisoner. Stanislaw's mount, none other than Halteclere.

Seeing this, Sam swung his sword in Berenger's direction, pointing it accusingly at the large mercenary. "You treacherous bastard," were the words that finally came out of his mouth.

Berenger laughed and Tristan would have laughed at the irony of those words any other time.

"Sorry…_ Sam_… but Stanislaw convinced me it would be utterly foolish not to turn you in."

And with those words, the Redcliffe knights rounded on Sam. He swung at them desperately, the terror of being caught, the shame of being a fool, clear in his eyes.

Tristan did nothing.

They knocked the sword out of Sam's hand and restrained him.

"You mother fucker. This was not our deal." Sam gazed furiously at Stanislaw holding Catriel – her eyes frowning upon them all.

"The girl is too valuable to let go." Berenger turned Durendal around, nodding at a pair of Redcliffe guards. They came to Tristan. He held his hands out in surrender. They tied a rope around them.

He should have cast a spell. It was too risky. The horsemen far outnumbered him and they had Catriel. They pushed him forward, attached the rope to a horse. If he couldn't keep up, he'd be dragged.

Sam struggled against the same treatment, shouting at the knights, steeling his anger onto Berenger and Stanislaw. "Cowards! You are nothing but cowards, running from a battle like dogs with tails between your legs!"

The Crimson Knights ignored him. The procession moved forward, the horse they attached Sam to, his own, driven forward quickly by Stanislaw so that Sam had to jog to keep up or risk being dragged.

When Sam finally deigned to look his way, he had only five words for him.

"What have you done, Sam?"

And then he turned away, for the man would not answer him and the sight of him twisted his spine so that he felt like he might as well have been stabbed in the back.

It probably would have hurt a lot less than this.

* * *

_And that completes Part II. See you in a few months with Part III. I have barely begun writing it, so keep a look out if you wish to follow this story and are not already doing so. Feel free to leave a comment. -artemiskat_


	32. Chapter Thirty-One: A Man Condemned

_Hi there. I have four chapters for you to end the year. After that, I am afraid I have to put the story on hold as I have not actually worked on it since October and real life has become so sucky that I lost my feel for the characters. I have everything planned out but rather than write a crap ending I'll wait till I get my mojo back to finish it - I hope it won't be too long a wait. For now, enjoy these chapters which were written months ago. -artemiskat_

* * *

PART III

Chapter Thirty-One  
A Man Condemned

So this was it. Standing with his back straight to the crumbling stone wall, his wrists, and with that his freedom, bound to the dungeons of Redcliffe castle, Tristan wasn't at all sad. He was tired. Just tired.

He might have been able to sleep, even only able to stand, were it not for the incessant chatter from the cell across from his own.

At first, the other prisoner prattled on about times past, as if the previous days had never happened at all, as if all that came before could erase what came after.

"Remember the time we were sent into the old brothel in Halamshiral to flush out the Golden Marauders' commandant? Remember the look on his face? He had a whore on top of him. We let him finish before we killed him – which wasn't a long wait at all. Remember that?"

Tristan never answered. He never looked the man's way.

Fatigue washed over him in waves as the nervous chatter continued, begging for Tristan to reminisce about the good old days. But he didn't listen. His attention rested on the dull ache in his back, the feeling of tiredness seeping deep into his bones, and his failure.

_Catriel…_

He gripped onto the bars in front of him, so fast and so angrily it sent a loud clang reverberating through the bowels of Redcliffe castle.

The chatter abruptly stopped.

"I promised," he began in a shaky voice, but which became harsher, gruffer, and steadier as he went on. "I promised that I would get her home. I said the Maker himself would have to swoop down from his Golden City to stop me. Instead, a drunken, lousy excuse of a man – a man I loved like a brother – has kept me from fulfilling that promise." Tristan turned his eyes onto the prisoner across from him. "Well, Samuel Longshot, congratulations – you can now say you succeeded where a god could not."

Sam lowered his green eyes to the ground. He might have slumped to his knees had his shackles and the size of the cell allowed him to do so. "I'm sorry." It came out like a whimper, the kind a wounded animal made when it was down and out, and one which Tristan chose to ignore.

He didn't care about himself. He was tired. The taint was spreading within and without him. He'd soon be dead anyway, even if he hadn't been caught where he shouldn't have been in the first place. But Catriel, in the hands of the last few remnants of the Crimson Knights, there was no telling what would happen to her.

If only there were someone still on his side he could get a message to, send for Ronan to finish what he could not. No matter what his brother thought of him, Tristan knew Ronan would help Catriel, whether or not he knew she was his own. He had that same goodness in him, inherited from their mother.

"I'm fucking sorry," Sam called out loudly. "Why can't you believe that?"

_It's hard to trust somebody who's just stabbed you in the back._

Tristan said nothing. He noticed when they put him in the cell, that it was the same one Jowan had been imprisoned in all those years ago. _Another backstabber…_

"I wasn't thinking straight."

Tristan wondered if the younger man had been thinking at all. But again, he said nothing, pretended not to be listening. Maybe Eamon, or Teagan, or Maker forbid, Isolde, would forget about him down there in the dungeon and he'd be forced to endure Sam's ceaseless mouth. In truth, he'd rather die than listen to one more word from Sam.

"Berenger found me. The Redcliffe Knights were with him, or so he said. I didn't actually see them. He was going to turn me in. So I promised him I would bring you."

Had Jowan died here all alone? Or had he been executed? Or returned to the Circle of Magi, and maybe then sent to another, more terrifying prison? Tristan never had found out, hadn't ever bothered to. Jowan's lies had nearly cost him his life… but instead they turned him into a Grey Warden, which was just the same sentence in the end, only covered in sugar and sprinkled with fairy dust.

"I thought I'd play along with Berenger and get the coin and get us away at the same time. I didn't know how I'd do that. I just thought I could."

Tristan imagined he'd turn into a darkspawn if kept down in the dungeons for a long enough time. It'd be worth it, if only to see the horrified expression on Isolde's face. _I knew that ze was ha monster!_

"I was going to warn you. I really was. But the way you treated me – I was fucking pissed with you. With everyone, always overlooking me, always shrugging me off as a stupid little brother. A stupid sidekick to a hero."

But then again, it wouldn't be worth it if Sam kept rambling. It was intolerable, yet Tristan knew there was truth and reason to what Sam was saying. It broke his heart to hear it, to know that he was the cause of Sam's resentment. He'd known it all along, if he was honest with himself, since the day Ser Conall spotted them at the docks in Denerim.

"What does it matter anyway?" Sam let out a long and frustrated breath. "You're not even listening. No matter what I say or do, I'll forever be known as a traitor. It's all of my doing. Everyone's right. I am nothing but a fool."

Tristan's disappointment with Sam, with himself, was too much for him to reach out and offer some kind of forgiveness or reassurances. He stubbornly kept to his silence.

"I never meant for Cat to come to harm." It was said with a hint of honesty, with a trace of regret, and lingering sense of sadness.

_No one ever means to hurt anyone._

"I didn't know Stanislaw was still alive."

Tristan tightened his grip on the steel bars, his eyes fixed to the ground as the anger built up inside of him.

"I should have told you…"

"Just shut up, Sam," Tristan said loud enough to send an echo through the hall. The torchlight seemed to flicker with the force of it. Without looking at Sam, he continued, "You can run all your life and not get anywhere. You did yourself a favour. I understand. Now, do me a favour and shut that mouth of yours."

He heard Sam shuffling in his cell and then finally, thankfully, all was quiet. Maybe now he could get some sleep, or at the very least clear his head before he was summoned. Because no matter his earlier delusions, he would not be forgotten down there. He only wondered who he was to face first.

…

It seemed as if he closed his eyes for only a second before the cell door creaked open and a heavy boot landed on his midsection, briefly taking his breath away, and sending burning pain through his recently wounded ribcage. Rough hands pulled him out of the cell and he doubled over. A gloved hand found purchase on his hair and dragged him back up into a standing position. He found himself staring into the cold eyes of a guardsman.

"Try anything, _mage_, and you'll find a blade and not a boot in your side next time," the guardsman warned. He turned his gaze to two others. "Shackle his feet together."

"I did nothing to warrant that boot," Tristan spat back. The two guardsmen leaned down to clasp iron shackles around his ankles. The chains rattled loudly against the floor of the dungeon.

"Oh you didn't, did you?" the senior guardsman reached an arm back, ready to strike Tristan.

"Hey," came a shout from the opposite cell. "Do you really want to injure _the king's prisoner_?"

The guardsman hesitated, though anger still rumbled out of him in great, deep, breaths. The other two finished binding the shackles to Tristan's ankles and stood up, grasping the prisoner by the arms. The senior guardsman brought his arm through the air, and Tristan braced himself for a punch to the face, but at the last minute, the guardsman changed his mind and instead whacked Tristan in the back, turning him around in the direction he wanted him to go in.

The guardsman grimaced at Sam. "The next time you speak to me, runt, I will see your tongue cut out and fed to the dogs."

Sam didn't answer, but a mocking grin spread across his face. Tristan met the younger man's eyes and saw the underlying worry there. Where were they taking him? What would happen to them both? Tristan couldn't bring himself to say anything and wouldn't get the chance anyway for the guards shoved him forward and onward they walked; the guards free of impediment, Tristan waddling like a duck with his ankles tied closely together.

_As if I would run away_, he thought with annoyance, sending the senior guardsman a look of loathing every time the man deigned to look back at him.

They brought him through the dungeons. They passed a cell full of criminals, all watching him pass by with large, curious eyes. Their bodies were thin and pale, their clothes dirty and threadbare, suggesting they had been down there for a very long time. He wondered what they had done to be there. He wondered if they were innocent or guilty. And he gave an involuntary shudder to know his own conscience was as black as the night.

The guards hurried him up a narrow, winding staircase, fit only for single file, and one which he remembered from long ago. They were taking him to the main floor. Household guards stood sentinel at every corner. Most ignored him. Some gave him a quick look before returning to their watch. It was quiet and the stone walls emanated a chill, even as torchlight flickered from the walls, lighting up the dark passageways. Either it was night, or whoever was now Arl preferred his castle to be in perpetual gloom.

_Or they try to frighten me_. Tristan chuckled and received a poke in the back for his efforts. It pained his already painful back and he probably would have doubled over had the guardsmen not been grasping him so hard.

Finally, they stopped outside a closed door. Tristan recognized it as Eamon's study. Voices drifted through the cracks of the threshold. The deep voice of a man argued with one belonging to a woman. Or so it sounded to Tristan. He couldn't really tell what was being said, only could tell it was nothing cheerful. His patience wore thin. The shackles around his wrists, around his ankles, felt heavy and burdensome. His back ached and his temples began to pound. Without realizing it, his hands began to flex. Mana flowed through him, yearning to be released.

The guards at his side flinched. He watched as their free hands sought the comforting touch of their scabbards. The senior guardsman looked over his shoulder, focusing in on Tristan's palms warily, a hint of warning mingled with fear in his eyes.

Tristan narrowed his eyes in mock challenge, yet he ceased the flexing of his palms and stifled the need to cast. He would not resort to magic. It was time to face his past.

The door to the study opened. The senior guardsman moved aside as a woman appeared at the threshold. At the sight of Tristan, she stopped in surprise, looking him over carefully. She knew him and he knew her. She had aged since last he saw her, a few lines visible in the poor light on her face, yet she remained graceful and quite beautiful.

"Lady Isolde," he greeted with a smirk.

Her lips curled in disgust or disdain, perhaps both. Tristan never could tell the difference when it came to the facial expressions of born and bred nobility. She turned her head away before hurrying away down the hall.

_Still a high bred bitch_, he thought.

The guards led him into the study. A man stood tall in front of an elegant desk. He was dressed richly in the attire of a nobleman – red velvet shirt, puffy at the shoulders, spotless leather boots over black trousers and his hair smoothed back carefully and neatly. This man was a stranger to Tristan, but the man behind him, sitting calmly at the desk and looking in the distance beyond Tristan, he knew. Eamon. Arl Eamon.

The Arl had aged a lifetime. His hair, once a dark grey, was now completely white as snow. His face was etched with deep wrinkles and he seemed hunched and frail. He looked small sitting behind that large, elegant desk.

The young noble moved toward Tristan, stopping at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning in close to Tristan's ear. "Very few people know of my… magical abilities. My father is not one of those few. I would appreciate it if it stayed that way, dear Champion of Redcliffe."

The young noble left his side and suddenly, Tristan knew he was no stranger after all. "Connor Guerrin, all grown up."

Connor acknowledged the recognition with a slight bow of his head.

"Is that who I think it is?" Eamon asked.

"Yes, father, it is Tristan Amell."

"Come closer boy."

Tristan, unused to being called _boy_, didn't realize the arl was referring to him, until Connor made a slight motion with his hand, ushering him forward. So he stepped forward, the guards he felt reluctantly letting him go, though they kept their hands near their scabbards. The chains of his shackles dragged and clinked over the floor, reminding him that he was facing the arl not as an equal, but as a prisoner.

As he neared Eamon, Tristan noticed the man's eyes had clouded over. The arl might soon be blind if he wasn't already. Tristan, however, got the feeling the man could still see when Eamon squinted hard in his direction.

"The years have not changed you much, Warden." The arl cleared his throat. "At least not in appearance."

"Arl Eamon." Tristan bowed his head politely. He might be a prisoner and he might not like the arl very much, that didn't mean he couldn't show respect.

Arl Eamon dismissed the guards from the room with a simple wave of his hand. They bowed to his wishes, a hint of hesitation in their eyes, but left the study nonetheless.

When the room was cleared, Arl Eamon spoke again. "You did a foolish thing, boy."

"I had my reasons," Tristan replied, his voice steady and monotone.

"I didn't mean that," Eamon replied with curtness. "Though the Maker knows _that_ was just as stupid. I meant the part where you fled the King's justice. You made him look weak at a time he needed to look strong. A most unfortunate consequence of your actions."

Tristan kept his silence. It was Alistair himself who had allowed him to escape after all. Eamon was no idiot though, the longer Tristan kept silent, the more he deduced. And deduce he did.

"He aided you, didn't he?" Eamon prodded.

Tristan didn't answer.

"Alistair sent his squire to free you and you were caught. I cannot say I never suspected, but now I know the truth of it." Eamon turned his head in the direction of Connor. "This goes no further than this room."

"I would never betray the king, father. He is my cousin and your savior," Connor said, laying a hand atop the old man's shoulder, all the while pointedly looking at Tristan. The man was a weasel in disguise he suspected and gave him a bad feeling he couldn't quite explain. But there was nothing he could do except ignore him.

"So you will finish what he started?" Tristan asked Eamon.

"No, I will not." Eamon stood up from his chair, shakily. He needed Connor's help to stand. He straightened up, brushing off his son's aid, and yet remained slightly hunched, his age showing. "The king has been sent for. It is too risky to send you off to Denerim. Even if I gave you an escort of all the best knights of Redcliffe, you have a reputation of evasion and Ferelden cannot have that happen again. And by the Maker, if it is the last thing I do, I will make sure that _he_ finishes what he started. He cannot afford to look weak now of all times."

Tristan wondered what Eamon meant by _now of all times_, but he didn't question the Arl. "Then so be it."

"I cannot deny the great service you provided Ferelden with in the past." Eamon limped away from his desk, Connor at his heels, ready to steady his father should he need it, and the Arl paused before Tristan. His eyes may have clouded over, but the shrewdness, the calculating, was still there as he looked up at Tristan. "But all you have done since then has nearly rendered all of that null and void."

"Nearly?" Tristan raised a brow, holding in a chuckle. "My escape seems to have become old news before I even figured out where to go. I have not been in Ferelden for nine years. Surely, someone else has been causing trouble in my absence?"

The Arl ignored his sarcasm and walked away. "Anora will use that fact against you."

"Anora?" Tristan's mood instantly darkened.

"You didn't think the king would come alone, now, did you?" It was Eamon's time to smirk.

"Is that all, my lord?" Tristan inquired, holding his dark mood at bay.

Eamon paused before the door to his study. "A man with not much time left to him learns to speak swiftly. There is no time to evade the crux of the matter. Something you will find out, sooner than later, I suppose."

Eamon regarded him as if he were a man condemned, which truthfully he was though at that moment it seemed to finally become starkly clear in Tristan's mind. He was a man condemned. His crimes, whether or not there was any truth to them at all, had already been judged. It was now only a matter of following through with what would have been nine years ago. And he thought, also at that moment, that Eamon must have executed Jowan.

Connor opened the door to the study and father and son slipped away, leaving Tristan alone with his thoughts and his chains and his shackles.

_Of course, Eamon is right, _he thought, _and naturally_, _the bitch would come._


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two: A Dark Melody

Chapter Thirty-Two  
A Dark Melody

Tristan remained in the study long after Eamon and Connor had departed. At first he dragged his feet around the room, listening to the chains and shackles around his ankles heave around behind him. And then, because he hadn't sat for a long while, he settled into a comfy looking sofa at the far end of the room. He wondered why the guards did not come to get him. He figured they left him there for some reason he as yet could not discern. Instead of wracking his brain for possible reasons, he shifted his attention to the tomes lining the walls. From afar he read the titles, sinking ever deeper into the soft cushiony sofa.

_Maybe as soon as I drift off into sleep, they will burst in and… what? Shake me awake until I die?_

He felt his eyes drooping, slumber edging closer to overcoming his consciousness.

"_The Gentle Knight_," he read from a cracked spine of a book. He chuckled at the thought of such a silly juxtaposition. He hadn't met many gentle knights in his lifetime. _It must be a fairy tale… _he thought.

"Gentle hands, lay me down." Before he knew it he was humming a melody. "Sweet release, take me now." A melody he heard long ago in the streets of Denerim, a sorrowful song, really, sung at a funeral in a back alley full of hovels. Next thing he knew, the words were flying out of his mouth and he was singing it not the way it was supposed to be sung.

"Soft caress, let me go. Weep not for, my lost soul." An image flashed before him of that long ago day. Him, a child, watching from the shadows as an old man was placed on a pyre, listening as the dead man's son sang the same song he now sung with deep sorrow, the fire light flickering over the whole scene. "I have lived, I have loved. Dry your eyes, precious dove…"

Tristan stopped. The door had opened, a figure stepped into the room. In his dreamy state, the armored figure, wearing a winged helmet that left face in shadows, was death come for him. It walked past Eamon's desk, straight for him. He caught the glint of two blades strapped to the figure's back. And then, she, for he knew it was a woman now by the slight curves visible through the armor, stopped before him.

"So, are you here to kill me?" he asked with a grin. Though he knew that whoever was beneath the helmet was probably not there to kill him, for Eamon had made it quite clear to him that the king would oversee his demise. And this was most definitely not the king.

"You're very chipper for someone so deep in trouble it could drown you."

The voice was unrecognizable to him, so he simply shrugged. "We all die. Why get depressed about it now?"

"Such a dark melody, sung so cheerfully and beautifully I might add. Yet all those times we spent together, I never once heard you sing. It is quite pleasing to the ears. It must run in the family."

"And why shouldn't I sing with a smile on my face?" He eyed her curiously. This was someone he knew, from his life before. A flutter of anticipation ran through him. He knew who this was, yet he didn't, or at least he didn't want to hope and have those hopes be shattered. "I finally get to be free of this wretched life."

The woman crossed her arms. "Oh come now. It wasn't all wretched."

"Do I know you? Because you certainly seem to know me."

"_Do I know you?_" she mocked, raising her hands in the air. "Is that any way to treat an old friend?"

Her hands shifted to the helmet. Slowly, but surely, she removed it, shaking her hair free from a leather ribbon at the nape of her neck.

"The noble Melisende Cousland. I should have known. Shame on me."

She grinned. The sight was so welcome, so unexpected yet expected, that he smiled back like a fool. He thought he would never see her again. All at once he felt younger, stronger, and hope spread throughout his limbs. Hope of what, he couldn't quite discern.

"You're looking dazzling as usual," he said after a long moment of staring in disbelief. "And it appears you are untouched by age. What's your secret?"

Melisende closed the rest of the distance between them. With her helmet under her arm, she squatted to meet him at eye level, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "I am a dutiful Grey Warden. The deep roads are great at keeping my skin smooth and pale."

"Ouch. That was a low blow of epic proportions." He let out a half-hearted laugh. "I deserved that, of course."

Melisende stood up again, never taking her eyes off of him, seemingly fearful that one look away and he would disappear from her sight. Frankly, Tristan felt quite the same. His friend, long thought lost to him, was she just a dream, a wishful thought conjured from his delusional mind to stand before him?

"I should kill you, you know." Her eyes were filled with hurt, with accusations.

"But you won't."

She walked around him, watching him. All amusement had fled from her face, replaced by a look of contemplation. Was she really going to kill him? He didn't think so. But she was choosing her words carefully, and he was ready to hear them. He'd done a lot of stupid things and he was the cause of the hurt in her eyes he had no doubt. Melisende leaned down again, tugging at the chains connecting the shackles around his wrists. "For nine years I worried," she said. "I waited every day for any scrap of news involving you. Involving Sammy. I nearly drove myself crazy."

"You shouldn't have." He hated himself at that moment. His selfish desires had put everything to ruin.

"But I did. You were gone and Sammy with you. At first I tried every trick in the book to find you. Eventually, when all that failed, I resigned myself to waiting. If you wanted to be found, you would have let me find you. But nothing. _Nothing_ for nine years. I couldn't give up. Do you understand? It was like losing my family all over again…"

"Melisende, I… I'm sorry. I know that is probably no comfort to you right now. I truly did not… want to hurt you or anyone else." He cast his eyes downwards in shame. To put his friend through something like that, well, he was a monster. "I am what I am," he whispered, more to himself, but surely she heard the pathetic thought.

She reached under his chin with her leather gloved hand and lifted his eyes to meet her own once more. "You could have come to me. You could have sent for me."

"I had to disappear." _Selfish bastard. Monster… coward._

"I could understand that – if I knew the truth," she said, oblivious to his self-deprecating thoughts, free of condemnation. "All those years I wrestled with what you did. I said it couldn't be true. And if Sammy could follow you into exile, then I knew it couldn't be true. Tell me it isn't true."

He took a deep breath. "Some of it is… most are lies."

"I have heard every possible version of what happened. I want to know your side. I want to know your truth, Tristan."

"It is a long, unpleasant story."

She let go of his chains and settled in besides him on the sofa. She tucked her helmet in between herself and the sofa's edge, and removed her gloves. She placed a bared hand over his and formed a smile on her face. "I rather like listening to long and unpleasant stories. It's one of my flaws."

He half smiled back with a sigh. He owed her at least this. It would not make up for anything, but it would be a start. "Well, since it looks like I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, then I'll tell you." He breathed in deeply. It would be hard to relive that part of his life again. But as he let out the breath he held, he found he could already breathe a little easier because his friend was by his side again. He didn't know for how long, yet even if it was only for the moment, it was a balm to old wounds that desperately needed healing. "It all began in Antiva…"


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three: Bittersweet Madnes

_Just a quick note for this chapter: I was going to write some "Antivan" (Spanish) in order to be consistent (I used French for Orlesian earlier) but I did not want to butcher that language. I can do that to French or English because those are my langagues, but not to someone else's! Also: **some readers may find the contents of this chapter disturbing (M rating, definitely)**... -artemiskat_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Three  
Bittersweet Madness

_9:37 Dragon_

"The jewel of Antiva."

Leandro stood on the railing, one hand held tightly to the ropes of the ship's masts, the other shielding his eyes from the morning sun, rising behind the rooftops and spires of the city before them.

"Antiva City," Tristan said quietly and without emotion.

Leandro let go of the ropes and hopped down from the railing to stand beside Tristan. He pumped at his chest, unable to tear his eyes away from the city they were quickly approaching. "The motherland. The home of my mother, my mother's mother and all my ancestors!"

Tristan followed the Antivan's gaze. A bridge manned with towers and men guarded the city's harbor. Part of it rose above them to allow their ship through. Antiva City rested on the coast of Rialto Bay, buildings sprawled on every level of cliffs before them. At the highest vantage point was a palace overlooking them all. Leandro had never stepped foot in his homeland before. He'd been born and raised in the slums of Llomerryn, and thus Tristan figured that Antiva City must really look like a glittering jewel to him.

"Are you crying?" Tristan asked, seeing a gleam of wetness underneath Leandro's eyes.

"This is an historic day for me, my friend. I never thought to see my homeland."

Truthfully, Tristan had never thought to see Antiva either, but tragedy had drawn him to the shores of the foreign country. He hadn't expected Leandro to follow him, yet once the man had learned he was going to Antiva, it had been hard to shrug him off.

"Well," Tristan replied, "get a hold of yourself. We need clear heads and eyes at the back of our heads. This won't be a stroll through the meadow."

"I will." Leandro wiped at his eyes and tugged straight his leather armour. "I will."

…

The streets of Antiva City were crowded. Bodies filled every free space. Scents Tristan had never encountered before permeated the air around them, mingling with the smells of sweat, leather, and seawater. An indecipherable number of languages travelled through the space around them. People dressed in finery shared the narrow walkways with the poorest scum who begged beneath balconies garlanded with colorful flowers. Horses carved a path through all and armored men patrolled with watchful eyes.

"Antiva City," Leandro said, pausing dangerously in the middle of everything. The fascination was apparent on his face as eyes, opened wide, searched out with eagerness every nook and cranny.

"Why have you stopped?" Tristan asked with annoyance as people roughly shoved past him.

"The city is amazing. And larger than I expected. However are we going to find your friend?"

Tristan grudgingly admitted that Leandro had a point. His mouth was halfway open to answer when a commotion up the street scattered the crowd. Women screamed as a man on a rearing horse fought off another man who'd jumped up behind him and now had a dagger poised at the rider's neck. The armored men looked on but did nothing to stop the murder. As the horse landed back on its front feet, blood splattered through the air and the rider crumpled to the ground with a thud. The murderer jumped off the horse, wiped his blade on the shawl of a poor unfortunate woman who happened to be standing nearby unable to escape in the heavy press of the crowd, and then fled into a narrow alleyway.

"And no one is chasing the murderer," Leandro mused with a grin.

"Because he's not a murderer, but an assassin."

Leandro turned to Tristan with understanding. "A Crow."

"If we follow him…" Tristan made his way to the alleyway. It was a little easier to move around now that the crowd had been scattered, but even so, the assassin was long gone.

"Maybe he left a trail of blood?" Leandro suggested with a shrug.

"Let's find out."

And so they plunged down the dark alleyway, searching for one bird among a flock.

…

The alleyway had not left them a trail of blood to follow, but it did lead them to a poorer level of the city. Here the dwellings were made of wood, and here children ran frolicking through the mud spattered streets that smelled of rotten fish. It did not look like the kind of place the Crows would set up shop, but it was all they had to go on.

"It is said that to speak of the Crows, is to bring them out to play. So, Leandro, why don't we speak of the evasive birds?" Tristan felt the gaze of the people on the streets linger on him as they walked past. "Ask them where he is."

"Are you sure?" Leandro asked. "I'm not afraid, but is it not too early?"

"We've been wandering the streets for hours. My patience wears thin."

Leandro nodded and then turning to the people on the streets, began to shout, repeatedly, in Antivan, "_Tell me where to find the elven assassin._"

Many people turned away or averted their eyes. Some made signs of warding. One woman hissed at Leandro before running into her house.

Leandro dangled a small pouch of coins in front of the small crowd. "_I will reward anyone who tells me where to find him_."

Still, no one budged. A small group of children stopped playing, dropping their sticks all at once so that it was the only noise other than Leandro's voice. A mother grabbed her son and rushed him as far away from Leandro and Tristan as she could possibly go.

"Name him." Tristan whacked Leandro in the shoulder.

"Patience, my friend," Leandro said before turning back to the crowd, gesturing dramatically with each further word he spoke. "_The elven assassin was once a Crow. __Then he went to Ferelden and battled alongside the Hero of Ferelden, defeating dragons upon rooftops, an army of monsters, and evil warlords. He has since returned to his homeland. You know his name._"

"_Zevran?_" A little girl stepped forward. Her face was streaked with dirt, her clothes dirty, and her hair long and loose, Tristan unable to discern if her true hair color was black or if she was just dirty, but her eyes were large and hungry and they rested on the pouch of coins dangling in the air in front of her.

Leandro crouched down to the girl's level and beckoned her closer. "_Yes, child, Zevran. __Do you know of him?_"

The girl nodded, never taking her eyes off the pouch.

"_These coins can be yours, if you take us to him._"

She fidgeted with her hands, looked from Leandro to Tristan and to the pouch of coins and rested her hands on her belly. She was hungry, no doubt. And although Tristan could not understand what was being said, he knew Leandro was close to getting what they needed.

"_La Puta Copa_," the girl finally said.

"_La Puta Copa?_" Leandro repeated.

"_S__í__,_" the girl replied. She held her hands palms up for the reward. "_I cannot go there. You can find it yourself. It is easy._"

"What did she say?" Tristan asked.

"He's at the Whore's Cup." He tossed the girl the pouch of coins. "_Be careful with that. __Take it home right away to your parents. Point us in the right direction, now_."

The girl nodded and then pointed down the street. As Leandro straightened up she ran off, clutching the pouch of coins tightly to her chest. Tristan hoped she wouldn't get robbed, but the girl seemed quick for one so hungry. And no one seemed to follow her.

"A tavern, then?"

Leandro laughed. "I'm guessing it's more than a tavern with such a name."

"It figures Zevran would be hiding in a brothel. Well, let's go find this Whore's Cup."

…

The Whore's Cup was every bit as lively as the Pearl in Denerim, but it was much more daring than the Pearl could ever hope to be. The scantily clad prostitutes dangled their wares – their bare breasts mostly, or if they were men, their manhood – and shouted out in articulate detail all that they could perform and all the fantasies they could fulfill. Tristan could not understand a word they were saying, but judging by the suggestive ways they gestured, these whores were some of the more creatively talented ones he'd ever seen – and he'd been to Llomerryn, a den of sin and debauchery. The only difference here was the tasteful way things were done.

Besides the whores, many patrons sat around the brothel, and unlike the prostitutes, they could not be described as refined. They were riff raff, working types of men, and all they seemed intent on doing was leering, chugging down some kind of Antivan ale or wine, and singing loudly and happily. Some fished through their pockets to claim a tumble behind the sheets – for every whore stood before a closed off section of the room where they performed their duty.

"Upper class whores for low class men, that's something you don't see every day," Leandro remarked as they walked through the brothel, searching for a place to sit. He raised a brow at a particularly pretty elf who reached out to brush her hand against his arm.

"It's all a farce, Leandro. Don't be deceived by appearances." Tristan pulled his friend away from the whore. It was all an act, a thinly veiled disguise. These whores were the same as any other whore, no matter how grand their portrayal. They took a seat at a table. Tristan searched the room with a careful eye. His impatience grew when he didn't find who he was looking for and he slammed his fist onto the table when he could hold it in no longer. "There's no sign of him anywhere," he said through gritted teeth.

"He'll turn up," Leandro replied without a hint of worry.

"Maybe he's not even here, not even in Antiva." Tristan reached for the pouch around his neck and squeezed it. What if he had come there for nothing? What if he never found what he sought?

Leandro shrugged. "Where else would he be?"

"I don't know."

Tristan's eyes wandered around the room once more. Most of the patrons were men, with one noticeable exception; a woman with short black hair, sitting at another table with her back to them.

"What does Zevran look like anyway?" Leandro asked. He could not keep his eyes off the elf that had propositioned him. She, in return, had not given up on him and pressed her red stained lips into a pout. "I'm not sure what I am supposed to be looking for."

"Blonde, tanned skin, tattoos on his face. An elf. Arrogant swagger. You'll just know when you see him." Tristan released his grip on the pouch and waved his hand in front of Leandro's gaze. "If you ever take your eyes away from her."

Leandro grinned. "I'll take your word for it then." He continued to stare at the whore, who flipped her long, blonde hair behind her and trailed a finger around her nipples.

Tristan let out a sigh, putting a hand to his temple. He was beginning to think it was a complete waste of time for him to have come to the brothel, to have even come to Antiva City. Even if he did find Zevran, there was no guarantee the assassin would be able to help him. Zevran had, after all, betrayed the Crows when he failed to kill Tristan and instead fought by his side. How much could his old friend still know of the guild?

Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan caught a flash of movement as a few men took seats next to the lone woman. One bold and very drunk man tried to put an arm around her. She shoved it away.

"Maybe he's with a whore?" Leandro suggested, grinning widely as the sound of a whore in orgasm reached through the room. He licked his lips as he stared at the blonde elf. "I'd like to find out how that one screams out…"

"Let someone else pay for the pleasure of making that poxy scream."

"Like you, my rich friend?" Leandro turned to Tristan, a mischievous smile on his face.

"Neither me, nor you."

"I said to get your dirty paws off of me!" the lone woman's shout rang through the room.

_Gwaren. A tavern. Brenna, in the rough hands of a drunken fool, shouting to be let go._

The flash of memory was gone as fast as it had come. Feeling the anger course through him, Tristan rushed out of his seat, letting the chair fall crashing to the floor behind him. It made such a ruckus that a hush fell over the brothel, though noise could still be heard from behind the hanging sheets. He stopped in front of the obnoxious patrons, towering over them with menace. The woman watched him with icy blue eyes narrowed in anger. His gaze trailed down to her hands, which were glowing, just barely, but enough for him and anyone with a discerning eye to notice. He couldn't let her do that. He couldn't let herself put her life on the line to fight off a drunken fool. He punched the bastard who held her in the face. The man fell back into his fellows' arms.

"The lady said to leave her alone," Tristan spat out in explanation to the surprised faces.

She flinched at his words and seemed surprised to find that he spoke the Ferelden tongue. The glow around her hands dissipated as she studied him curiously. Leandro reached his side and stuck himself between Tristan, the patrons, and the woman.

"_Apologies, this has all been a simple misunderstanding…_"

The punched man wiped the blood from his nose, spat onto the floor and lunged for Tristan, despite his fellows' attempts to hold him back.

"I tried to be the peacemaker…" Leandro took a swing at the man coming for Tristan. All at once, the brothel erupted into chaos, with chairs flying, whores screaming, and fists flying. To Tristan's surprise, the woman did not back down, but joined in the brawl rather eagerly.

Tristan didn't have the time to wonder at the woman, for he quickly became surrounded by angry men. He slung one off of his back while fending off another at his side. He punched the face of one holding a mug as a weapon, and kicked another to the ground. He flung a whore to the side as she ran for him, eyes wild as she held up a fire poker in the direction of his head. He tripped at one point on the leg of a broken chair and had to defend himself while on his back, the same crazy whore attempting to scratch at his face and only getting at his upraised hands before being kicked away by the loner woman. Tristan jumped onto his feet, nodded his thanks at the woman, before he had to wrestle off another drunk.

This man was a bear, stronger and taller than Tristan. As they locked arms and pushed against each other, no ground was gained by either. Tristan tried head butting the man, but only succeeded in giving himself a larger headache. The big man laughed and pushed Tristan away. He fell into the solid weight of another man.

Tristan was expecting the man to hold him down while the big man pummeled him into senselessness, perhaps even to death. But the man only offered a hand. Tristan reluctantly took it, hauled himself up with the help of the stranger, and when he turned around, he realized it was not a stranger at all.

It was Zevran.

"A drunken brawl?" Zevran smirked. "You should have waited for me."

Tristan was so happy to see him he could have kissed the man. "Zevran!"

"Why you are always intent on keeping me away from all the fun, I will never know. But now, dear Warden, it is time for us to leave."

Zevran gestured to the exit with a nod of his head. The brawl still went on around them. The big man had moved on to torment another after having seen the flash of daggers at Zevran's belt.

"Wait," Tristan said, marching into the fray to gather Leandro and the woman. It proved an effort to wrestle them away from their combatants, but once he did so he dragged them to Zevran. "Now we can go."

…

Zevran led them swiftly through the streets of Antiva City, up steep hills and down narrow alleyways, until finally he threw open a door to a tenement and gestured them all inside. It was dark by the time they walked through the hallway, lit only by a single flickering sconce. They passed a few doors, went up a flight of stairs and after turning a corner, came to a single door, which Zevran unlocked with a key from his pocket and opened.

"My home is yours," Zevran said as he entered through the creaky door into a small one room apartment. Tristan followed in after Leandro, and glanced back once over his shoulder to see that the lone woman mage remained with them. When they were all through Zevran shut the door firmly, barring it with a piece of wood.

"Are you all right?" Tristan asked the mage.

She grinned back at him. "Are you?"

"The fair Champion of Kirkwall," Zevran trailed an appreciative hand against the woman's cheek before turning to Tristan, "and the Hero of Ferelden – in my palace, at the same time. What a lucky day."

"Palace?" Leandro looked around the tattered looking apartment in disbelief, at the same time he rubbed his cheek, where a bruise was forming, a result of the brawl. "If this is a palace, I wonder what the inside of the palace on top of the city looks like."

Tristan felt the woman's eyes on him as he paced around the room. So, Zevran knew her and she knew him. And she was a Free Marcher. None of which truly concerned him at that moment. There was only one thing he needed to know at that point. It was what he'd come to Antiva City for.

"That palace is a Crow's nest. They keep all their secrets there – and more," Zevran replied to Leandro's ponderings. "Many have died in that gilded cage."

Tristan stopped pacing in front of Zevran. "If I needed to find a certain assassin or two, would that palace be the key?"

Zevran laughed. "My friend, I could not in good conscience let you get one foot near that place."

"Why do you need an assassin?" the Champion of Kirkwall asked.

He turned his eyes onto the woman. "It's not what you think."

"He would just hire me if he needed someone assassinated, wouldn't you?" Zevran smirked in his direction.

"I need answers and then I need vengeance." Tristan was reluctant to say any more. Even if he had stood up for her earlier, he didn't quite trust the woman who was the Champion of Kirkwall – that title did not mean anything to him. Her eyes were fastened to him still, and he pointedly glared at her now. It did not deter her, she only let out a little chuckle.

"Your brother had the same look. He didn't trust me either."

"My brother?"

"Yes, that little twit named Ronan. He reminded me of my own twit of a little brother."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "Half-brother." Any other time he might have wondered how in the world Ronan knew the Champion of Kirkwall, but he didn't ask.

"If you must be so precise."

She settled herself into a chair. Evidently, she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Zevran noticed Tristan's impatience and grasped the Champion's shoulder. "Hawke can be trusted. She is a friend of mine."

"Fine," Tristan relented. "My patience is at an end."

"Then unburden yourself."

"Assassins were sent after me three years ago."

"And yet, unsurprisingly, you stand here before me," Zevran remarked. "Go on."

"They failed to kill me, you're right in that, but they did kill someone close to me. For that, there is a debt to pay, payable only in blood. Their blood. I lost their trail soon after they fled. They thought they killed me, but they forgot to make sure of it. I need your help, Zev, in finding them."

Zevran regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. The agony of the wait sent Tristan's thoughts racing. Zevran had to help him. He was the only chance Tristan had of catching up to the bastards. He needed to see them pay. He promised Brenna they would pay. And by the Maker, he would make them pay. Slowly, painfully, and torturously.

"I am flattered, truly I am, my dear Warden, but what makes you think I would know where to find these assassins?"

Tristan was shaken from his dark thoughts. "You are a Crow. Or you were. If you don't know where they are, you know how to find them. How to draw them out. And you owe me."

Zevran sighed. "And was not helping you to end the Blight repayment enough on my part?"

Feeling his frustration rise, Tristan reached for his sword hilt. Zevran held his hands up in a show of peace. Leandro braced himself to interfere, and Hawke stood up to stand by Zevran.

"You tried to kill me," Tristan said.

"And I failed. That is in the past. I kid, Warden, I kid."

"Then help me." Tristan let his hands fall to his side. He wandered away from the others in the room and ran a hand through his hair. This was not going as he planned. But when did things ever go as they were planned?

"You think they are Crows?" Zevran asked.

Tristan faced the others and nodded. "The woman especially looked to be Antivan, perhaps Rivaini. The man, I'm not so sure." The man had been fair skinned, red headed and spoke the Ferelden tongue with ease.

"Do you have their names?"

"Only what they told me." Which had been a lie, in the end. A horrible betrayal that had cost Brenna her life. "Arn and Perdita," he said, unable to hide the hatred and disgust in his voice.

Zevran stared off into space, like he was thinking on what little information he was given. "Perdita, that is just a play on the word for _lost_."

"It figures." Tristan could not suppress a disbelieving laugh. "They were husband and wife, lost in a snowstorm."

"The man's name, though, it is lately one often spoken of in Crow circles. You are lucky my friend, for I think I know who you speak of. There is a man who goes by many names – Dionisio, Goyo, Pepito, and even…" Zevran turned to him, brows raised in a smug manner, "… even Arn."

Tristan's pulse raced. The need for vengeance coursed through him. He strode toward Zevran, stopping only inches from the elf. Arn was not the one who had killed Brenna, but if he found Arn, he could find Perdita. And he could find out who sent them. "Then show me where the bastard lives."

"So you're going to walk up to this guy's house, knock on his door, and kill him?" Hawke chuckled behind Zevran.

A mad grin seized Tristan. "Sounds like a good plan."

"No, no I cannot let you do that," Zevran said.

"Why not?"

"First of all, I don't know where Arn lives or even if he is the same one you speak of. Second of all, he is an Antivan Crow. If you are trying to assassinate a Crow, he will always be one step ahead of you."

"Not if he doesn't know I'm coming."

"But he knows he failed in killing you."

"How would he know that?"

"Oh, my dear Warden, the Crows have little birds watching every corner, every shadow, every place in the city. There is not a soul in the city they do not know." Zevran turned to Leandro. "Even your friend here. His name is Leandro, isn't it?"

Leandro crossed his arms, an uncomfortable look overcoming his face. "So they know who we are. Big deal."

"Yes, big deal it is." Zevran sat down on a ratty looking old sofa. "Arn will be on guard. He will be expecting you. He won't risk himself in any way. It will be hard to draw him out. Hard, but not impossible."

"So what do you suggest?"

Zevran turned his eyes onto Hawke and he grinned. "She can help."

Tristan shook his head. "No. She doesn't need to be involved. I will not put her in danger."

Hawke frowned. "Excuse me, but I think I can decide for myself whether something is dangerous or not. I am the Champion of Kirkwall. I've dealt with thugs, Qunari, and all manner of crazy. I think I can handle a single Crow assassin."

"It's not your fight."

Hawke moved closer to Tristan. Her blue eyes met his own in determination. "The fight in the brothel was not yours."

"That is different." Tristan would not budge. Nobody else need get involved in his affairs. Vengeance was his alone. How many times did he have to make that clear? "I was saving you from your own stupidity. If they had seen you were a mage…"

Hawke gripped his arm and her gaze turned fierce. "We are cousins, you and I."

"Are we?" Tristan nearly snorted out loud at the ridiculous idea. But the look in her eyes, the set of her jaw was serious.

"Yes. My mother was an Amell, just as you are. And because I have no other family to fight for…" Tristan detected a hint of sadness in her eyes. He didn't know where it came from or what it was borne of, but it was there nonetheless. "…I will fight for you. If you will have me?"

Tristan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could feel himself relenting to Hawke's wish, if only because it would bring him closer to Arn. And so he held out his hand when he opened his eyes. Hawke took it and they shook in agreement.

"Now," Hawke said, smirking, "we'll see who's saving who from their own stupidity."

…

Only a night later and Tristan stood in the shadows of a darkened alley, waiting, watching for Arn to be lured out of hiding. Zevran stood by his side, calmly twirling a dagger in his hand.

"Why is the Champion of _Kirkwall_ in Antiva City?" Tristan whispered. Hawke waited in a beam of light coming from a window above and across her. She stood not so very far from them, Leandro leaning against a wall beside her.

"Why is the Hero of Ferelden in Antiva City?" Zevran replied with a small shrug.

"You know why I am here."

"I guess you did not hear of what happened in Kirkwall then. Hawke carries a burden, much too large for any woman." Zevran flipped the dagger and replaced it at his belt. "It was one of your Wardens."

"What?" Tristan couldn't hide the confusion he felt. "I've not heard nor paid any attention to any news for some time. I've had much more important things on my mind."

"Important to you, yes. I have no doubt about that." Zevran shrugged. "But the world goes on even if you are stuck in a state of revenge. There was a mage uprising in Kirkwall. Though, they say the mages were forced to such a last stand only because of one man."

"Last stand? What are you talking about Zevran?"

"Your old friend, Anders. He shattered the Kirkwall chantry into a million little pieces, the Grand Cleric and everyone else in there with it. The Knight Commander ordered the destruction of all the mages in the city."

Tristan closed his eyes and sighed. "The Right of Annulment. Anders, what have you done?"

"He's started a war, that's what he's done. Your kind are rising up against those who tethered them for so long." Zevran elbowed him in the arm. "They need a leader."

"It won't be me." He studied Hawke, trying to let go of the thought that he was responsible for Anders' action. He hadn't been there when Anders left the Grey Wardens. Maybe if he had… Hawke wore a dress, cut low over the breasts and worn tightly to form. She'd curled her hair and placed a wilted flower behind her left ear. She was posing as an Antivan noblewoman and Leandro was her servant. He wore a wide brimmed hat that hid most of his face, in case he would indeed be recognized as having travelled with the Hero. They were the bait to lure out Arn.

"And it won't be Hawke," Zevran replied, following Tristan's gaze.

"What has she to do with what happened in Kirkwall? She is the Champion, but that surely doesn't mean she could have prevented what Anders did."

"He lived with her for years. They were lovers."

"I see." He thought that might explain the sense of sadness emanating from Hawke. "I'm afraid to ask what happened to Anders…"

Zevran chuckled. "I too, my dear Warden, have been too afraid to ask that of Hawke."

Tristan turned to Zevran with raised brow, searching for answers from the elf.

"One does not mess with the Champion of Kirkwall, even if one is the famous, ridiculously awesome Crow Assassin who fought by the Hero of Ferelden's side to end a Blight."

Tristan would have replied, yet the sound of approaching footsteps and the appearance of a man with them stopped him from taking even a breath. The man wore a red leather jerkin, his shoulders armored in metal and his arms covered in leather or perhaps drake scales. A plumed helmet covered his head, his face hidden behind a faceplate that revealed only his chin. Leandro straightened up and moved to stand in front of Hawke, but she held her arm out in front of him, keeping him at her side. The mysterious man came to a stop in front of her. He searched the shadows, looked left and right, and then when he thought all was safe enough, he focused on Hawke.

"I am here," he said. His voice was heavily accented, not like Tristan remembered Arn's voice at all.

"It is Dionisio," Zevran confirmed, however.

"But is it Arn?" Tristan could tell nothing unless he could see the man's face, which had been seared into his memory and rested there like a blot of ink that could not be erased from parchment. The only way to get rid of it was to tear it into pieces.

"My mistress is pleased." Leandro tipped the edge of his hat in greeting. "She has need of your abilities."

"And she cannot speak for herself?" Dionisio continued to stare at Hawke.

Hawke reached into her cleavage and pulled out a bag of coins. She held it out in the air between her and Dionisio. "I can. I asked for you specifically because you speak my language."

Everything had been arranged by Zevran and the many ordinary citizens in his pay. One had approached the Crows to relay the message to Dionisio that a hefty reward could be his. Tristan had his doubts the plan would work. If Dionisio was Arn, then anything having to do with Ferelden would surely rouse his suspicions, wouldn't it? The promise of coin, however, had proven so far to outweigh any possible risks.

Dionisio snatched the bag away from Hawke's hand. He drew open the bag, looked inside, took a coin out, felt it in between his fingers, and then placed it back in the bag. He hid the bag on his person.

"Good enough?" Hawke asked.

Dionisio nodded. "More was promised."

"And more will come, should you do what I wish."

"And what is that, _dona_?"

"I want you to kill my husband."

Dionisio took Hawke's hand and raised it in the air between them. He leaned down toward it, intending to kiss it as a sign of his agreement, only Hawke stopped him midway with her other hand, tapping the faceplate of his helmet. Dionisio looked up at Hawke, his head tilted to the side in apparent confusion.

"Before she comes to any further agreement with you, she wishes to see the face of the man who will kill her husband," Leandro explained.

"But, _dona_, I…"

"I heard you showed your face to Dona Anabela." Hawke pulled her hand away from Dionisio, feigning affront. "I will see your face, too, or there shall be no deal."

Dionisio straightened out. "That was before."

"Before what?" Leandro goaded. "Are you frightened of something? _Someone?_"

"Dionisio is not afraid of anyone!" He stamped his foot on the ground as if to emphasize his point. "Give me another advance of coin and I shall consider your request."

Hawke pretended to think about it before she lifted her skirt, exposing her bare legs and another bag of coins attached to her thigh. She trailed her hand over thigh. "You can take this from me with your own _strong_ hand if you show me your face."

"Ah, Isabela taught her well," Zevran remarked as he failed to suppress a chuckle. Tristan whacked him in the arm as warning. But Dionisio did not hear. He was transfixed by Hawke's leg.

"Well?" Hawke teased.

Dionisio's reluctance all but dissolved. He flicked the faceplate of his helmet upwards, exposing his face, but he was still too far and too much in the shadows for Tristan to get a good luck. Hawke seemed to know this. She beckoned him closer, bringing Dionisio into the light, reaching for his helmet and plucking it off. She let it drop to the ground. The clanging noise as the helmet hit the ground rang through Tristan's ears.

"It's him," Tristan whispered hoarsely.

His breath came fast. His heart beat faster. He clenched his fists so hard he thought he might just rip through his own palms. He felt a strong urge to tackle Arn to the ground and strangle the man to death. He burst forward to do just that, yet found himself being jerked back by Zevran. He couldn't be seen, not yet. They didn't have Arn in their grasp. Not yet.

Zevran stepped into the light. "Dionisio, what a surprise!"

Arn twisted his head at the intrusion. His eyes opened wide in shock. His mouth opened to reply, but Leandro knocked him over the head and sent him crumpling to the ground unconscious.

…

Zevran's apartment was not nearly big enough to hold the simmering rage Tristan felt. Finally, one of the assassins was in his grasp. Back and forth he walked, thumping his feet on the floor, calculating all the things he would do to Arn, who lay passed out on the floor. He felt the others around him, could see the underlying fear in their concerned faces. What was he going to do? What was he capable of? Tristan himself was not sure. He only knew that the rage within him would be released. Would it be a pretty sight? He highly doubted that.

Arn stirred on the floor. Tristan paused his maddening pace. His hands shook, begging for him to release some of that rage in a fury of magic. But there remained some rational part competing within him, and for the moment, it won out. He needed to find out certain things before he could get his long awaited revenge.

_Three painful years I have waited for this moment._

Arn groaned, placing a hand on the back of his head where Leandro had knocked him over with the handle of an axe. His eyelids fluttered opened and closed. Tristan walked in front of him, bent to his level. Arn's eyes were dazed, his head must be swimming in a dizzy torrent, but when everything seemed to clear, he let out a pathetic mewl at the sight of Tristan kneeling before him. Arn tried to scramble away, yet he turned around only to have his path blocked by Hawke and Leandro. In panic, Arn reached for where his sword should have been, and when it was not there, crumpled to the ground.

"We've already gotten rid of your weapons," Tristan said. "Place him in the chair."

Leandro lifted Arn up from the ground and shoved him into a chair which Hawke placed before them. Arn would not look up at Tristan. When he noticed how the man shook, Tristan felt a surge of delight run through him.

"Do you want us to tie him?" Leandro asked.

Tristan shook his head. He walked over to Arn, lifted the man's chin to look in his frightened eyes, and chuckled. "No, he won't get away. He won't dare try."

"I did nothing…" Arn croaked.

"Then why are you shaking in your breeches at the sight of me?" Tristan laughed. Arn had no reply. The man only jerked his head away from Tristan's hand. The enjoyment Tristan received from seeing Arn squirm wasn't nearly enough to squash the rage billowing within him though. It begged to be let go. It clouded his mind. It made him dizzy with anticipation.

_Revenge_, he thought. _For Brenna._

"This is a spell I rarely use," said Tristan, bringing his hands up in Arn's line of sight, forcing a magical glow from them. "You best hope I don't botch it."

"No please… no!" Arn attempted to stand up.

"Hold him down," Tristan nodded to Leandro and Hawke, "this could get ugly."

The dark purple glow treacherously encased Arn, like a safe cocoon, and then it burrowed into his head. Arn froze where he was, unable to move, unable to do anything as the spell worked its way through his mind, rending it, coursing terrifying visions through his memory, sending fear down his spine and through his limbs. When it exploded from his mind in a burst of millions of glowing particles, he clutched at his head, tearing at his hair, trying to throw the visions out of his mind. He fell off the chair, screamed, and writhed on the ground. After a moment, he calmed, finding a moment of safety as he curled into himself. A moment that would not last.

Tristan pulled Arn up from the ground, gripping him by his shirt and shaking him violently. "Where is she?"

"Who?" he whimpered in reply.

"Your woman."

"I have no…"

"Your wife. Your pretend wife." Tristan pushed Arn back onto the chair so violently that it shattered into pieces, leaving Leandro and Hawke scrambling backward for cover from the flying shrapnel. "The bitch who killed Brenna.

"I don't know…"

Tristan held his hand out. Zevran, who'd been watching the whole interrogation quietly and to the side thus far, sidled closer to him, placing a pair of brass knuckles into Tristan's palms. Tristan fit it over his fingers and closed his fist, making sure Arn saw the way he tested the crude weapon in the air.

"You'll be wishing for horror after this," Tristan told the cowering assassin.

"Please, no…" Arn hid under his arms, or at least tried to. Tristan punched him, the sound of the metal rings crushing bone all too apparent to all around.

"Where is she? Where is Perdita?"

He continued to pummel the assassin. Without realizing it, he wasn't giving the man a chance to answer his query. But his rage, his need for vengeance, was too great and too blinding. And too deafening. The sickening crunch of bone beneath his knuckles did not reach his ears. He never would have done this to someone before. He was a monster and he reveled in it. Only Zevran's tight hold around the bend of his elbow pulling him away from Arn stopped him from dealing an early death to the assassin.

"The whole point of torture is to get what you need, not to kill," Zevran calmly pointed out. Even for someone accustomed to getting information out of people in such a way, the elf looked slightly surprised at the lengths Tristan was going to.

Oblivious to the shock, Tristan grinned at Arn. "Not yet anyway."

Arn looked at him. His right eye was firmly shut, crusty with blood and already puffing up in a purple mess from the beating he received from the brass knuckles. It could not hide the stark fear running through him.

"Tell me, Arn, Dionisio," Tristan raised the assassin up once more, "whatever the fuck your name is."

"I…" The man could barely speak anymore.

"Speak up," Tristan rumbled.

"I killed her," Arn managed to finally rasp out.

"You killed Perdita?"

Arn nodded weakly.

"Why?"

"I couldn't let my failure be known."

"You had to have known I would show up sooner or later."

"I thought you wanted people to think you were dead. And I didn't think you'd bring a posse with you if you came after me."

Tristan laughed. "I don't believe you." And he didn't want to believe Arn. For if Perdita were dead already, it meant vengeance had been stolen from him. How was he to make it up to Brenna? The life of this pathetic fool wasn't nearly enough to satisfy. He'd wanted to get the one who'd taken Brenna's life.

The man could be lying, of course, to save his lover from Tristan's wrath. So Tristan would burn the truth out of him. A fireball, borne of rage and hatred, appeared from the depths of his palm. He let it burn there for a second, watching it glow on Arn's fearful face. And then he sent it onto Arn's hand, scorching the air, wrenching a scream from deep within the assassin's throat. Until Zevran put the fire out with a bucket of dirty water. The scent of burnt skin permeated the room.

"Have care, my Warden. I only have one home."

Tristan glared at Zevran before turning his attention back to the wounded assassin.

"It's the truth," he rasped out pitifully in reply to Tristan's searching look.

Zevran pulled him aside. "I believe he is telling the truth. Failure to the Crows is akin to a death sentence. Besides, he doesn't look like the kind of man who would bravely endure all manners of torture to protect his love."

Tristan grudgingly admitted to himself that Zevran spoke reason. The cloud of rage within him was subsiding. Now, he found he just wanted this to be over with. He didn't know what he was doing anymore. The truth that Perdita was already dead had withered his enthusiasm. Now, he was just disgusted with himself. He turned back to Arn.

"Who hired you?"

It took a great effort, but Arn managed to hock a rather large ball of spit toward Tristan.

Tristan wiped the spit from his face. "You want more?" He let his palms glow the same dark purple color of before, in warning to Arn that horror would not hesitate to depart from Tristan's palms to invade his mind again. Arn shook his head fervently and backed away as much as he could, stopping when he hit Leandro's legs. "Who sent you?" Tristan asked again.

"Anonymous…"

"Bullshit," Tristan interrupted. He let the horror spell float in the air between them. "Who gave you the orders?"

"An elven bitch," Arn replied as he held his hands in front of his face to shield himself from the spell.

"An elf? Tell me more."

"Some high class servant."

"Where did you meet?"

Arn seemed reluctant to say anything more so Tristan let the spell spin high in the air only to come down to stop just inches from the top of Arn's head. He decided reluctance was not worth enduring another horror spell, as Tristan hoped he would.

"In Ferelden," Arn answered. "But the elf had an Orlesian accent."

Tristan shared a look with Zevran. A high class elven serving woman with an Orlesian accent? There were many of those, but only one who served someone who might have a bone to pick with Tristan. He just didn't think that person ever capable of such vengeance.

"What did she look like?" Tristan prodded.

"Dark haired, slanty brown-eyed, pouty lipped elf. She was dressed in fine silks and such. Swaying hips good only for the touch of a horny noble. Even then probably wouldn't let just anyone touch her."

"Did she have a name?"

"No…"

"You're sure?"

Arn nodded weakly. He was barely able to hold his head up straight anymore. "S-she just went by _E_."

Tristan glanced at Zevran. The elf was thinking the same as him, for he nodded. And so it was all he needed to know. This had gone on too long. Tristan pulled out his sword, without any showboating, without any warning, he stabbed Arn in the belly and twisted. The man grunted in pain, his screams having long ago been wrung out of him, and clutched at the blade of the sword, as if to pull it out. His hands were cut, blood poured from his wound. It was the end and he knew it.

"May your intestines be a feast for Crows." Tristan pulled his sword out. He met Arn's eyes, saw the pleading look there, and by the Maker, he pitied the bastard. He ran the blade of his sword against Arn's throat.

It was finished.

"Was that wise?" Leandro asked as Tristan stood up.

He wiped his sword of the vile blood. But his hands would forever be stained with what just happened. "I got everything I need."

"So who sent the assassins against you?" Hawke asked.

"The Queen of Ferelden," he replied.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four: Memory of the Coldh

_**(M rating again)**_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Four  
Memory of the Coldhearted

_9:38 Dragon_

Winter in Denerim was cold. It wrapped itself around your bones, chilling you, chattering your teeth, and stubbornly refused to let go. Every breath you took was labored as the cold found another way to get you, even if you only stood in a doorway. If you ran, well, that was another story, another painful story. The frosty hands of winter left your exposed hair sparkling. It was beautiful, until you went inside and it melted all over you. You just couldn't get warm because the moment you became dry, you had to go out again. That was how cold a Denerim winter could get. Yet for all that, Tristan's heart was colder.

Antiva City was lost to his memory. He'd made the journey back to Denerim alone, slipping away in the night. He didn't want to get anyone else involved in what he was going to do. Truthfully, he didn't really know what he was going to do. The queen sent the assassins against him. How did one take revenge against a queen?

For three days he stood at the foot of a frozen fountain, wrapped in a heavy cloak, his face lost in the shadows of a hood, and watched. He watched her.

Every evening she took to the streets with her handmaiden at her heels and no one else. She walked swiftly, hiding her face beneath a heavy woolen scarf. She was on a personal mission, stopping for no one, wishing to remain anonymous. But he knew her. He knew her haughty walk, which she could not hide under the guise of a peasant, however hard she tried to. Always, he followed her, and every time she ended up at the same place – at the foot of the statue of her father – Teyrn Loghain.

It was a lonely statue. The stern face of Loghain watched the Orlesian embassy like a hawk. Pigeons hunkered down onto his head, warming each other, cooing, and defecating onto the stone likeness of the once great teyrn. Nobody bothered to clean it. Even she did not try to, for the cold was too much a bother to do anything. Tristan wondered why Alistair even let her erect such a monument. A monument for a traitor. Alistair was too soft. Too forgiving.

_And I… I am none of those things_, he thought, watching Anora bow at her father's feet. Erlina stood respectfully to the side, a roving eye studying their surroundings. The handmaiden's eyes found Tristan's on the first day, for only a second before the handmaiden shrugged him off as nothing to worry about.

And so he watched the queen from afar. He watched as she bowed her head in sorrow, as she placed a wilted half-dead flower in the snow at the statue's foot, and as she wiped the bottom of her eyes of the tears that welled up before she left as swiftly as she had come.

On the third day, he followed her back to the palace. His heart was not softened by the display of emotion the queen put on at her father's statue. He was not grieved by the fact that he was the cause of that sorrow. Loghain had made his own bed. Brenna, on the other hand, had been the innocent victim of a queen's revenge. He arrived moments after she did, the guards recognizing him at once as a friend to the king, and ushering him in to the palace.

"Hero," she acknowledged in surprise, concealing little of her disdain for him in her mocking tone. "The servants will fetch the king at once."

He reached for her arm. Her eyes fell to his hand on her person. The handmaiden gasped in outrage.

"That won't be necessary. I am here to see you."

"Me?" Anora wrenched her arm away from him. "And what would an ex-Grey Warden want with the Queen of Ferelden?"

He ignored her barb, her hidden insult of cowardice. "May we speak in privacy?"

Anora studied him for a moment, before sharing a look with Erlina. "Can this wait?"

"No, it cannot."

She hesitated a little longer. Tristan's expression remained neutral, unreadable. Inside, however, he seethed with a fury he didn't know he possessed. It was hard to tell what would come of it. The only certainty was that it would be nothing good.

"Very well, then." She turned to her handmaiden. "Erlina, prepare my antechamber for our guest while I freshen up."

…

Tristan waited in the antechamber. The silence enveloped him and a strange calm washed over his senses. Whatever happened that night would be right. Anora drifted into the room and sat on a cushy armchair, holding her head high and proud. Yet she would not look him in the eye. And he would not look anywhere but at her.

Eventually, he sensed that she grew uncomfortable under his gaze. She shifted in her chair and spoke up, "Where have you been all these years, Hero?"

He let the silence drag on for another moment, let his cold gaze linger on her. She met his gaze, though her eyes shifted around the room nervously. He assumed she searched for her handmaiden, who'd all but disappeared for the time being.

"I recently travelled to Antiva City," Tristan finally replied.

Anora shifted in her seat, so subtly most would not notice, but Tristan watched her with a keen gaze and he missed nothing, not the way she clutched so hard at the arm rest of the chair that the whites of her knuckles were visible, nor the way she crossed and uncrossed her feet.

"I have heard of your great misfortune." Anora lifted her eyes to his. "You have my sympathies for your loss."

Tristan felt the rumble before hearing the laughter burst through his mouth. He couldn't believe the woman's gall, offering him condolences for something she was responsible for. And her eyes, they were the eyes of a scheming liar. Anora again searched the room, for help, for a way out. She knew that he knew. And she knew that he would not let her get away with it.

"What is so funny?" she asked.

He stopped his laughter. Relative quiet overtook the room, the only noise being the flicker and crackling of the fireplace. He stood up from his seat and walked over to the fireplace. He picked up the poker, held it up in the firelight, in Anora's gaze. He hadn't brought his sword, hadn't been allowed by the guards. He caught the way her hand brushed against her hair, like she was trying to appear calm in the face of the hidden threat. But her eyes told a different story. She was caught in a trap and trying to figure out how to flee. Tristan used the poker to turn around the logs in the fire. He set it down and walked back to Anora, pacing in front of where she sat.

"I finally caught up to them," he said. "The ones who killed her. They are dead now."

"Why are you telling me this?" Anora asked. He noticed the way her hands had finally relaxed. She was able to look at him, thinking that the danger to herself had passed, in the declaration that the assassins were dead. "We have never been close. Wouldn't you rather speak to Alistair about this?"

"Only one had been long dead."

"Why should this matter to me?" She couldn't stop the quiver in her voice.

He ignored her questions. "The other met his end at my hands, but not before I got everything I needed from him. Torture, you must agree, has its uses?"

A look of affront overcame Anora. She stood up to meet Tristan. "I don't know what you are getting at, Warden, but if you continue to persist in this manner, I would ask that you leave…"

He pushed her back into the chair. A little mew of objection erupted from her mouth, quickly silenced when Tristan leaned in close enough to see the imperfections on her skin. "Do you know what he said?"

"Why should I know?"

He laughed in her face. "Because you were the mastermind."

She attempted a laugh of her own, but it was half-hearted, stunted by the fear running through her.

"You want me dead," Tristan said. She ceased her pitiful laugh and attempted to push him away to stand up, but he held her in her seat. "Instead you killed an innocent woman."

"I did no such thing." He let her push him away. He let her stand up. "I think it is time you leave. Erlina…"

He lunged toward her, placing a hand over her mouth. "We are not finished here. If you so much as call for your handmaiden again, or for your guards, I will not hesitate to cast."

Her eyes looked fearfully down at the hand covering her mouth. She managed a nod of agreement. Slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth. As soon as it was clear, she backed as far away from him as she could. It brought him great joy to see her fear, to see her cornered and helpless.

"We made a deal, long ago. I gave you Alistair. I let you keep your crown. In return, you spoke against your father at the Landsmeet. You knew what was at stake, Anora. You were a smart woman. You knew Ferelden needed to be united against the Blight and you knew your father stood in the way." He walked over to Anora, who backed herself into a corner. He leaned in closely at her side and lowered his voice. "You knew what could happen to him. You yourself are to blame for your father's death…"

"_You_ killed my father!" She hauled herself toward him in a rage, attempting to push her way out from the corner. He caught her by the arms and did not let go. "Do you really think I was going to let that go?"

"So what, we're even now?"

"I wanted _your_ life, not hers. I had to be careful. I am loved by the people, as are you. If it was found out I had a hand in your death, even if you were already presumed dead…"

"You knew all along I was alive. Your spies are good, I'll give you that."

"I would have loved nothing more than for the assassins to tell you who it was that sent death to your door."

He tightened his grip on her arms. Her eyes watered in pain but she did not cry out. "But you would have lost the love of the people. You would have lost Alistair. You would have lost your precious crown. You would have lost everything. Your father knew what he was doing when he fought me in a duel. He knew what was at stake."

"You didn't have to _kill_ him. You could have exiled him."

"Do you really think Loghain would have been merciful to me and my company if it had gone the other way? He would have killed Alistair right after slitting my throat. He was not right in the head and you know it."

"He was the only family I had… he was protecting me."

"You have no honor Anora. It was a fair fight. Your father accepted it, even in his madness. Why couldn't you? Why did you send knives at my back?" He shook her. She fought back with closed fists thumping his chest. "You're nothing but a fool. A bitch trying to be an alpha male."

She slapped him in the face, so hard it stung. "You asshole," she hissed. "Let go of me. I will yell for the guards."

"Go right ahead." He threw her to the floor in disgust, and then, to remind her of his earlier warning, he flashed some magic from his palms.

She dragged herself up from the ground, brushing off her dress. She turned to him with absolute venom in her eyes and in her voice. She was no longer the terrified damsel, but a vengeful witch. "I could have you sent back to the Circle where you belong apostate."

He rushed toward her. He no longer knew what he was doing. She turned away, tried to run away, but he pinned her against the wall, her back to him. His eyes fell to her neck, bare because her hair was piled elaborately on top of her head. He brushed a finger against it. He felt her tremble beneath his touch.

"Such a slender neck," he remarked.

He might not have had his sword, but he had brought something else with him; a small blade the guards did not notice. He pulled out the small knife, twisted Anora around so that she faced him, and let the knife hover in her line of sight. She gulped down in fear.

"Not as pretty as Brenna's," he said, locking his eyes just beyond the knife to her neck, "but I'm sure it would bleed just as much were I to run this blade against it."

"You wouldn't dare," she said. Her breath came fast.

"Wouldn't I? I've nothing to lose. I've all but faded from the people's memory. And I don't very much care for fame, only vengeance."

He ran the flat of the blade against her neck. It would be so easy, to turn it on its side and cut through the skin and watch her bleed for her crime. He wanted to do it. He was desperate to do it, to fulfill his promise to Brenna that her murder would be avenged.

"As do I. Vengeance for my father's murder by your hands."

Anora took him unawares, shoving him back and knocking away the knife from his hand. She ran scrambling into her bedroom. Tristan laughed, feeling a madness clutching his mind, unwilling to let go. He followed her calmly after retrieving the knife from the floor. She had slammed the door loudly, most likely in the hopes that it would alarm the guards. He didn't care anymore. She could call for the guards. He would kill them all if they got in his way. He kicked the door open. He knew he was making too much noise. A small, still rational part of his mind told him to stop, but he didn't listen. He saw Anora before him, rushing to get away. In her panicked haste, she tripped and fell onto her bed.

"It seems there can't be any winners here," he said.

"Come any closer mage and I will scream for the guards. For Alistair. He won't like this at all."

"And he won't like what you did."

Anora sucked in her breath. She knew he was right. Alistair would never forgive her for sending an assassin against the Hero of Ferelden, a man who was friend to him, comrade in arms. Tristan closed the distance between them, stopping at the edge of the bed, looming over her like a wraith from another world. She reached under her pillow and pulled out a small dagger, aiming for him, but he grabbed her wrist and twisted it. He wished he was twisting her neck. She dropped the dagger, a symbol of her wickedness, for who slept with a dagger beneath pillow but those who feared repercussion for their evil deeds? She slapped him once more. He laughed, madly.

"Aren't you going to yell for help?" he dared her.

He wrapped his hands around her neck. He squeezed. And squeezed. Harder and harder. He imagined he could feel the life seeping out of her. She clawed at his hands, writhed underneath him, fervently at first, and then weakly. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Her skin turned blue. He saw his reflection in her terror filled eyes. And he realized that it wasn't justice. The Queen of Ferelden, the wife of his friend, lay beneath him. He was a monster. He let her go, shoved her away, and turned his back on her as she choked and gasped for air.

He half expected her to stab him in the back then and there. Rather than give her that chance, and without offering healing aid, he got up and left the queen's chambers, only later noticing that his knife was gone.

…

"I would have preferred a knife in the back then," Tristan recalled. "It would have saved me a lot of misery."

"So the attempt on her life is true. What of the other charges?" Melisende asked from beside him. She had been riveted to his story. Now, he suddenly didn't feel like talking about it anymore. He wasn't in the least proud of what he had done, all of it – the torture of Arn, the confrontation with Anora. It hadn't been like him to do those things. He would see the terrible story to the end though, he owed his friend that much.

"Rape?" Tristan shook his head. "The treachery of those two women… Anora must have gotten Erlina to punch her. I never did, though she did not have to fake the neck wound, or the welts around her wrists and arms. They ripped her dress, yelled for the guards, for Alistair, and screamed rape. What was he to believe?"

"He should have believed you." Melisende placed a hand on his shoulder.

"He didn't know the whole story. He didn't know why I went to see Anora."

"Why did you never tell this to Alistair?"

"He never came to see me. All those months they held me in Fort Drakon, all through the trial, he never came to see me."

Melisende sighed. "I wish somebody would have sent for me then."

"None of it matters now."

"Why didn't you defend yourself during the trial?" Melisende asked, unable to hide the deep curiousity from her face.

Tristan had never stated why he went after Anora. He had told himself it was for the good of Ferelden to keep quiet about the queen's treachery. But truthfully, he had been just as sickened by his actions then as he now was. His torture of Arn, his near killing of the queen – Brenna would be horrified by all the blood on his hands. If there was an afterlife, if he did get to see her again, he didn't know if she would want to see him again. And so he had stood quiet throughout his farce of a trial. He shrugged in response to Melisende's query.

"They had my knife, proving my presence in her chambers. They had Erlina's fake testimony, telling everyone she witnessed everything that supposedly happened and everything that was allegedly said. They had Ser Conall's claims of seeing me fleeing the palace that night. And Anora… she claimed that I was jealous of Alistair, wanted his power for myself. Why or how could I defend myself when everything was set against me before the trial even started? It was a farce from start to end. The only one who refused to see me as a monster was Sam…"

"Sammy…" Melisende repeated wistfully.

"I should never have let him free me. I am sorry, Melisende."

She placed her hands over his, bringing calm to their shaking. He hadn't noticed how they had been shaking. His rage remained with him, but it was no longer directed at others, but at himself.

"I will help the both of you," Melisende declared. "You will walk free from here."

"You would only be wasting your time." _My evil deeds course through me, feeding the monster I am becoming. It is too late to be saved… _"If you have to save anyone, save Sam."

"I will not let your name, I will not let the Grey Wardens' reputation be dragged through the mud yet again." She squeezed his hand. "Were I in your shoes, I would have killed Anora for the things she has done. But you are not me. Time and again you show mercy when it is not deserved. The world is a better place for having you in it, and I would not have you or Sammy leave it anytime soon."

Tristan raised a brow in Melisende's direction. He remembered how hard she struggled with her need for vengeance. He knew how she felt after she killed Rendon Howe – the same as before. Her family was gone forever, and nothing could change that. He knew how much of a betrayal it was when he let Nathaniel Howe live, and he knew that had been forgiven long ago. He couldn't understand why she thought so highly of him after all he had done. He removed his hands from underneath hers and stretched them out as far as he could, stressing the chains connecting his shackles.

"As the Orlesians like to say, _quand le vin est tir__é__, il faut le boire_. When the wine is drawn, one must drink it. There's no going back now."


End file.
